


Erase and Rewind

by that_runneth



Category: Tron (Movies), Tron - All Media Types, Tron: Legacy (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-02-21 21:50:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2483648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/that_runneth/pseuds/that_runneth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“From the alternate timeline wherein Tron accompanies Flynn on his exile.” </p><p>Illustrations by Thane - varethane.deviantart.com,<br/>by Valentina Tutic - tiavalentina.deviantart.com<br/>by Pickles - preservedcucumbers.tumblr.com<br/>and Daria Kasimova - kasimova-daria.tumblr.com</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I.

  The dark figure turned around, away from the large window. The unanswered questions were still in the air; it was quiet, except for a short beeping that came from one of the terminals, when a technician tapped on the buttons. The one on the top of the short staircase, in black outfit and robe, appeared to be in charge – but his face was hidden behind an opaque helmet. His circuitry was glowing with golden light, on his suit, robe and helmet as well.

 

  “Who are you?” asked Sam impatiently, still out of breath after the previous disc battles. The visor of the dark helmet receded, even though the stranger at the window had not taken any action. And there it was, the face which Sam had seen twenty years before for the last time; and later on for a thousand times, on photos, in the television, everywhere. The one in front of him smiled.

 

  “Dad,” Sam whispered. It felt unreal and so it was: his father had disappeared twenty years before and yet this man looked like Kevin Flynn, on the day Sam had last seen him.

 

  “Sam,” said the other one, walking downstairs. “Look at you, man. Look at the size of you.”

 

  He grabbed Sam’s shoulders and the gesture was almost casual, almost encouraging.

 

  “How did you get in here?” he asked.

 

  “I got your message,” replied Sam. The other man stepped back. And it hurt.

 

  “Oh,” the other said and began walking around Sam. “So it’s just you?”

 

  Sam was staring at him. It hurt, because there would be no embrace, no words of happiness and reassurance. He knew that now; even if he had found his father, as it seemed to have happened, everything was way out, dreamlike.

 

  “Yeah,” he blurted out, actually offended.

 

  “Just you… Hm, isn’t this something?” the other one asked. He made a circle around Sam and Rinzler. Latter one was standing behind Sam motionlessly.

 

  “You look the same,” said Sam, trying to hold onto the hope, trying to make himself believe that he was facing his father.

 

  “Oh, a lot happened, Sam, more than you can imagine,” the other one said. Immediately, he pointed at Rinzler. “Disc.”

 

  Sam felt a light tug; his disc was gone before he figured what was happening. His previous opponent from the Arena had taken the disc from its port and presented it to… Sam could not think of who the man in the black robe was.

 

  “Let’s have a look,” he said and walked away with the disc. Sam felt confused. He looked back above his shoulder, at Rinzler, who was standing on his side. The masked soldier was not hostile; his face was hidden behind the dark visor, but he leaned ahead and looked at Sam with apparent curiosity. The vertical light lines on his black suit were burning red and he was completely silent. Sam let out a concerned little laugh and scratched his head. Then he put his hands on his hips. He was hoping to show confidence – not that he felt any. His father must have come and stayed here; that could be the explanation of his look and strange behavior. In that case there was nothing to be afraid of, and yet Sam was not calm.

 

  “Got it,” the other one said and turned back to Sam. He lifted the disc. “I expected more.”

 

  He threw the disc to Rinzler, who caught it with a fluid motion. Sam shook his head.

 

  “So,” he said. “You were trapped in here.”

 

  “That’s right.”

 

  “And you are in charge…”

 

  “Oh, right again. Two for two.”

 

  “So can we just go home now?” asked Sam with an awkward laugh. The other one was standing with his back to Sam and he could not see his face.

 

  “Not in the cards,” the reply came. “Not for you.”

 

  Sam looked at the floor. It was his fault: he knew the words he should have told instead of holding onto that slight hope. He glanced up.

 

  “That’s a hell of a way to treat your son,” he said. The other one slowly turned.

 

  “Oh, that,” he said. His expression was dark now and Sam knew that they were done pretending. He walked there and looked in Sam’s face from close. For the first time now Sam noticed his hexagonal pupils, the same feature that he had seen in the Armory, in the eyes of those female programs. “I’m not your father, Sam. But I’m very, very happy to see you.”

 

  Sam was speechless. The stranger smiled and walked back to the large window.

 

  “Clu,” whispered Sam. The sentries grabbed his arms and began to drag him out from the room. Rinzler followed them quietly. Sam twisted his head back.

 

  “Where is he?” he yelled. “What did you do to him?”

 

  He heard the answer from far, from behind the closing door.

 

  “Same thing I am going to do to you… User.”

 

 

II.

 

  The ship descended. The Arena below grew larger and larger. The cubes and platforms had disappeared: there was the clean ground below now. Still numb after the previous conversation, Sam was watching the field quietly. The aircraft touched down. Two guards came, followed by two bald administrative programs. They escorted him out from the ship, to the empty playground. Music played and fireworks lit up the night sky. Had his father died here, Sam was wondering as they were walking away from the ship, and would he, Sam, die for real, had he been killed at this place?

 

  “Greetings, programs!” one of the administrator programs exclaimed. That one, Sam had seen that program with the transparent visor, in the control room. Loud cheering and applause came from the crowd as a response. “Oh, what an occasion we have here before us. Because your rumors are true. We do indeed have in our midst a User!”

 

  He turned and pointed at Sam accusingly. The crowd booed and Sam felt uncomfortable, almost embarrassed, as if he had done something to these people.

 

  “A User. So, what to do? What does this User deserve? Might I suggest, perhaps, the challenge of the grid?”

 

  The crowd exclaimed. Sam felt increasingly frustrated: he could have really used some explanations. Instead, he seemed to be given a part in a play he did not understand and did not like.

 

  “And who best to battle this senior opponent? Perhaps one who has some experience in these matters.”

 

  A staircase opened up under the docked ship. Wild applause started once more and fireworks exploded on the sky again: now with golden and orange tones. Sam knew who was coming before he caught sight of Clu. He came downstairs and then closed the distance between the aircraft and their small group with long, graceful steps.

 

  “Oh yes indeed, programs! Your liberator! Your luminary! Your leader and beacon! The one who vanquished the tyranny of the User those many cycles before! Clu!”

 

  Sam looked at Clu, who was wearing his helmet and a combat suit. The system administrator leaned closer to him.

 

  “I’ve been waiting a long time for this,” he said. Sam’s expression hardened.

 

  “You wanna play?” he asked. “I’ll play.”

 

  He was looking straight at Clu, who took his place across Sam; his face was hidden behind the dark visor. The administrator program that had spoken to the crowd, brought a box now and presented it to Clu. He was talking quietly and there was the noise of the Arena, but Sam heard him.

 

  “Excellent words, Sire,” he said. “Were you pleased with my execution? The crowd seemed quite energized.”

 

  “It wasn’t meant for them,” the cold reply came. Then for whom, Sam was thinking. It was a play, a setup – but for who? The box in the red-circuited program’s hands opened and revealed two batons. Clu took one of them; the servant turned around and presented the other stick to Sam. The program recoiled as he was holding to case, held himself back with apparent disgust.

 

  Sam took the other baton. There was a soft click and the device came to life, lighting up in the middle with the same blue glow that illuminated Sam’s new suit.

 

  “What’s this?” he asked. He grabbed the stick with both hands, ready to see a light saber manifesting. “What do I do with this?”

 

  “I’ll give you a hint,” the servant said, off-hand. “Not that.”

 

  The crowd roared with laughter. Sam did not even try to conceal his frustration anymore. Clu turned away without offering a comment. Behind Sam a trapdoor opened and four programs emerged: Sam had seen one of them during the trip on the Recognizer. Their outfits were similar to the combat suit Sam was wearing and their expression was grim.

 

  “Grid is live,” a faceless voice announced. “Initiate light cycle battle.”

 

  Clu ran. Sam saw him jumping and the baton activating in his hands: it materialized as a bike, out from nothingness. Four more red bikes joined him immediately and the fast-moving vehicles headed at Sam and the other four blue circuited programs. They dodged to avoid being hit by the bikes. The light cycles sped up and roared away.

 

  “You got no chance, User!” one of the men yelled at Sam. They began to run; another one of them stopped at Sam for a moment.

 

  “Their bikes are faster than ours,” he said. “Use the levels!”

 

  They were running and their batons opened up as bikes, just as Sam had seen it to happen for Clu before. They drove away in a hurry; Sam was looking after them with a faint smile on his face.

 

  “Now this I can do,” he murmured to himself. He started. On his right the aircraft lifted up from the ground. Sam was running: the baton opened up in his hands and he saw the bike manifesting under him, around him. The headpiece that closed around his face was not the same he had wore earlier, much rather a motorcycle helmet. He sped up and joined the other four bikes.

 

  From the other side of the Arena the four red and one golden bike approached. The blue bikers turned on a switch on the handlebar; Sam followed suit and a bright energy wall appeared behind his vehicle. That was familiar, most intriguingly from the old arcade game he had used to play with.

 

  “Here we go,” he whispered. The enemy units separated and they were coming from various directions. The blue players looked at one another and Sam saw the fear in their eyes. In just a moment he found himself alone as the other four riders all went to different directions. One of them, on Sam’s left took another level; a red light cycle was after him immediately. The red cut the other’s way and the blue bike crashed against the energy wall which had been drawn by the red rider. Sam watched in horror as the blue cycle fell to pixels and the rider was ejected: the unfortunate program crashed against the ground and was killed by the impact right away.

 

  Sam looked up. The golden bike was cutting in front of him the same way the red had done it just a moment earlier. Sam turned the wheel quickly and braced himself: he hit the golden energy wall hard, but he managed to stay on his vehicle. Clu’s face turned back at him: Sam could not see his expression and a moment later his own bike dropped as he accidentally drove it into a loophole that took him into a lower level.

 

  Clu’s bike remained on the upper level: Sam saw him through the transparent floor. Clu must have been watching him too, because when one of the blue cycles collided with him, he almost lost his balance. He seemed knocking out the daring blue program and manipulating his bike: the blue vehicle ran against the wall along with its unconscious rider.

 

  The golden bike was chasing Sam once more and the boy was keeping his eye on it. Making the same mistake again brought him the same punishment when a red cycle crashed against him. Sam changed course and took a lower level purposely this time. His bike was slower; but that did not mean that he could not use it wisely. He sped up and used the ramp to gain some extra speed: his bike jumped in the air, above the red. He hit the ground just ahead of the soldier’s vehicle and turned the wheel immediately – the red cycle crashed at the blue energy line and was destroyed at the same moment.

 

  From far Sam saw the third blue light cycle getting into a long, twisted channel and running against Clu. He could not make out the details of their collision, but he could clearly see the ejected blue light cycle as the vehicle was flying out from the tunnel straight at him. The blue bike and its driver both got shattered at the impact.

 

  He was speeding. He spotted the other blue bike. Sam approached him. The rider was the program he had seen on the Recognizer.

 

  “Hey!” he yelled. “We gotta work together. It’s the only way.”

 

  The program looked up at the red that was driving above them on the upper level, staring down at them menacingly. The program turned back at Sam and nodded. They separated and the red chose to chase down Sam.

 

  “That’s it. You got me.”

 

  Sam took a ramp and the red bike was driven away by another: the soldier lost him for a moment. Sam drove up next to him.

 

  “Boo!” he said. The red looked at him and got distracted for a second; when he glanced up a deadly blue energy wall was standing right ahead of him, drawn there by the last blue program. The red screamed and tried to slow down his vehicle. It was too late: the red light cycle hit the wall and the crash killed the rider.

 

  “Yeah!” the blue program yelled happily when they got together once more.

 

  “Now that’s what I’m talking about,” said Sam, grinning. A red light cycle crossed their route on the upper level. “Another customer. Let’s go!”

 

  They took the ramp and used it to eject their bikes again. The bikes jumped in the air and when they landed, their energy walls surrounded the red from both sides. The red could not maintain his balance in the narrow corridor that was left for him to maneuver; the red light cycle swerved and the rider was thrown down. The red bike fell apart, but the soldier got under the front wheel of the blue program’s cycle. The collision killed the soldier and overturned the blue bike. The program rolled to the ground and his bike folded into a baton.

 

  “Hang on, buddy, I’m coming,” said Sam and turned his own vehicle around. He switched off the energy wall behind himself and headed back at the crash site. The abandoned baton was lying there halfway, between him and the blue program that was getting on his feet now. Sam picked up the baton and started at the program. Latter one reached out at him, lifting his hand to take back his device.

 

  He was dead in the blink of an eye when Clu’s bike hit and crushed him from behind. Sam rode straight numbly: he lifted the baton and saw the blue program’s severed hand clutching onto it. The hand pixelated and fell. Sam put the baton away and turned his vehicle around. The golden bike turned around as well and they were heading at each other with full speed now.

 

  “This is it,” whispered Sam. “Come on!”

 

  Clu brought out his own disc and his hand shot out at Sam’s bike. The disc slashed into the vehicle: the bike flipped over and exploded. Sam fell on the ground. His helmet retracted and he was watching the explosion from where he was lying on the ground. The crowd roared. Sam was panting. He looked back above his shoulder quickly. Clu was making a turn for one last time: his lowered disc was scratching the ground with deafening, threatening noise. Then the golden bike was in line and the system administrator raised his disc as he was approaching.

 

  Sam brought out his own disc with a determined swing. Clu was coming swiftly and there was simply no way for Sam to stop him. He would try it anyway; or else he would be dead in a minute, without the chance of finding out the truth. His disappearance would surely prompt Alan Bradley to look after him; considering that Sam’s abandoned Ducati would be found outside of the real world Arcade, in would not be a surprise if Alan would locate the hidden office next, just to be delivered into this nightmare. Sam braced himself.

 

  A new sound came from the side: a vehicle entered the Arena suddenly. It was a dune buggy or the Grid equivalent of it: a four-wheeled car with wide tires and small body. It moved quickly and crossed the space between Sam and Clu’s approaching bike. The buggy was dragging a blue energy wall behind it: Clu was coming too quickly and the appearance of the new vehicle was too sudden - for that Clu was not able to stop his bike on time. The golden light cycle hit the wall with high speed and shattered. The crash, which would have killed a regular program on the spot, threw the system administrator in the air. Clu landed far away from Sam and the buggy. The crowd booed.

 

  “Illegal combatant on the Grid,” the Arena loudspeaker announced. The passenger side door of the buggy opened and Sam saw a dark figure with black helmet behind the wheel.

 

  “Get in,” the driver said. It was a distorted voice, the sound of a machine.

 

  “Illegal combatant on the Grid,” sounded again. The crowd was loud and Sam was thinking desperately. He had no way of knowing from where the buggy had come or the intentions of the faceless driver – but he had nothing to loose.

 

  “Get in,” the driver repeated emphatically. Sam returned his disc to its port and jumped in the passenger seat. The door closed and the vehicle started with great speed.

 

  “System failure,” came from the loudspeaker. “Release Rinzler.”

 

  Far behind them Clu was kneeling on the ground. Three red cycles appeared suddenly and started after the buggy.

 

  “Who are you?” yelled Sam at the driver. It was a male program in black, armored combat suit, with blue energy lines which were different from the circuitry of the Arena contestants.

 

  “Hang on,” the machine voice replied. The buggy swerved and hit the red bike on their right. The light cycle crashed and the red fighter was killed. The buggy made a wide turn and sped up, with the remaining two red bikes behind it. The driver touched a button on the control panel. Sam looked back and saw two small, glowing blue grenades falling from the buggy and then exploding right under the red bikes. One of the soldiers derezzed in the explosion, the other one, whom Sam recognized as Rinzler, was thrown up in the air by the blast – but he took out a new baton and another light cycle materialized under him by the time he landed.

 

  The buggy was heading at the solid wall of the Arena. Two rockets flew from the car and hit the wall, leaving behind a large hole, an opening to the outer world. But there was no road outside; the closest visible land was farther from the walls of the Arena and way below. And while Sam wanted to be out of this building, he meant it to do it another way, not by dying.

 

  “Hold up man, we can’t make that,” he yelled. The buggy shot out from the Arena and crossed the distance between the building and the outer, dark lands. Upon the touch of the driver the wheels of the buggy changed: to dark, unlit, raw appendages. The vehicle landed on the other side and continued running.

 

  “Made it,” the driver stated. Rinzler’s bike appeared at the hole on the Arena’s wall. The warrior stopped.

 

  “They’re turning around,” said Sam.

 

  “Not by choice,” the driver replied. “Their vehicles aren't designed to go off Grid. They'll malfunction on this terrain.”

 

  “What about us?”

 

  The driver chuckled, revealing emotions for the first time now.

 

  “Obviously not.”

 

  The city disappeared behind them. This land was dark, rough, lifeless and the buggy was making its way across it with high speed. Lightings were crossing the dark sky above them. Sam looked at the driver, who would still not show his face.

 

  “Where are you taking me?” asked Sam.

 

  “Patience, Sam Flynn. All your questions will be answered soon.”

 

 

 III.

 

  They headed at a dark wall which had only a small fissure on it. Sam could not stay quiet, but yelled again. The buggy passed through the hole without a scratch and continued on the dark road. The only light was the buggy’s glow around them and the occasional lightning. While the trip seemed to be dangerous, the driver appeared to know what he was doing and Sam eased up. He was looking around, watching the black desert. He thought the driver was peeking at him, but when he turned back and looked at the program, that was staring straight at the road.

 

  They approached a dark hill. In the bottom there was an angular hole, a handmade cave. The buggy entered and the cave came to life. It was a long tunnel with white lights. At the end there was a circle of light where the vehicle stopped and the doors opened.

 

  Sam followed the program into the elevator. It was a simple plate that lit up when it started to ascend. Around them there were the walls, the raw black material of the outside world. The elevator took them into a large, dark room. It was huge, with high ceiling, like a penthouse. On the other side of the place there was a great window which overlooked the black desert and the city in the distance. Somebody was sitting or kneeling at the window, on a pillow in the middle of a white light panel.

 

  “Wait here,” Sam’s companion whispered and walked to the kneeling figure. Sam’s eyes began to get used to the dark and he was able to make out the bike on his right side, the table with chairs on the left and the other furniture items around the room. He looked at the program that was walking away; the helmet receded now, but Sam was seeing him from behind and he could not see his face.

 

  “Tron,” the man at the window whispered. “I dreamed of the city, first time in years.”

 

  The program bent down next to the man, still with his back to Sam.

 

  “It’s a sign,” he replied. The man laughed softly. Sam knew that voice, that laugh, but he remained still. He would not be fooled once more.

 

  “A sign, my dear, of a weary soul. I’m afraid something’s happened.”

 

  “Something has happened,” the program replied and put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “We have a guest.”

 

  Despite of the warning Sam walked closer. Had the man called the program ‘Tron’? It had been just a whisper and Sam could not be sure.

 

  “There are no guests, kiddo.”

 

 

  The program straightened himself and turned at the entrance, at Sam, but his face was downcast and it was dark in the room. The man stirred and stood up. All the lights turned on finally. Sam looked at him. It was Kevin Flynn, aged, with white hair and beard. He was wearing a white tunic and pants. He was staring at Sam.

 

  “Sam,” he whispered.

 

  “Long time,” Sam replied.

 

  “You’ve no idea,” his father said, still shocked, dumbfounded. Kevin Flynn went to him, slowly, as if he was afraid that he was walking in dream.

 

  “You’re here,” he said and reached out at the boy. Sam could not reply; for a moment he held himself back from the wrinkled hands. Then his father embraced him. “You’re here.”

 

  “I’m here,” whispered Sam. He tried not to cry. Then the embrace ended and his father stepped back and looked at him once more.

 

  “You’re big,” he said.

 

  “You’re…”

 

  “Old,” Flynn finished his words with a smile. Sam laughed; he would have to cry otherwise. “How did you get here?”

 

  “Alan came over,” replied Sam. Behind his father the program stirred at the name, but Sam did not look at him; he had completely forgotten about him.

 

  “Bradley,” said Flynn.

 

  “He got your page. I found your office under the Arcade.”

 

  “Page,” murmured Flynn to himself. “Oh, the page. Of course.”

 

  There was an awkward silence. Sam was not sure if his father was still with him, if he did not lose contact with the world around him. The program behind walked closer to them and Sam looked at him at last. His heart skipped a beat. Now he understood why the program had not showed his face before: he, Sam would not have gotten in the buggy in the Arena or would have made him stop the vehicle in the middle of the desert, had he seen that face. Light brown hair, grey eyes; somewhat similar to old pictures of programmer Alan Bradley. For the first time now Sam noticed the bright T symbol on the program’s suit.

 

  “Dinner soon,” said Flynn with emotionless face. “We’ll talk then."

 

  With that he left and walked away, out to the balcony. Sam was looking after him, stunned. Tron glanced at him awkwardly.

 

  “He never thought he would see you again,” he said. It was somewhat familiar; maybe because of his voice, maybe because of Alan’s ghost between them, for the idea that things could be fixed.

 

  “Yeah,” replied Sam. He sighed and turned away.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was beta'ed by Radishwine - thank you for the brilliant suggestions! All remaining mistakes are mine. Radishwine.tumblr.com
> 
> Art by Thane - varethane.tumblr.com

I.

 

  He was running late again; his vehicle was crossing the streets at high speed. Programs were walking on the pavement - some of them stopped to look at the large projector above. On the screen a familiar face appeared.

 

  “Which brings us to why we’re here,” the man on the screen said. “Our User, Kevin Flynn tells us the way to that perfection is with the ISOs.”

 

  He looked back at the road. The man on the projector wore his own face; probably that was the only reason why he recognized the dishonesty in the speaker. It was his creation and very reflection, the Grid’s system administrator, Clu.

 

  “And if he says, sharing the system administration with an ISO leader is the next step, I say let the future begin.”

 

  There was loud applause. The picture changed and it showed the crowd now. The large square was filled by programs – yet the place was not even close to being full. Not all the residents of the system were convinced about the coming changes. Why, he was thinking, even he was missing the event now, despite its apparent importance. But he had been working late and then he had been spending time with his son. The picture turned back at the presenter again. Clu was wearing his regular attire, a dark combat suit which had replaced his casual clothes a few cycles earlier; there were three sentries standing behind him. The ISOs that shared the podium appeared very different next to them. Their leader, a tall female program was dressed in white; similar white circuits illuminated her clothes and her skin. She was wearing a large headdress. On her right side three Arjians were waiting, a man and two women. They were all bald, with extensive white circuitry and in the customary dress of their kind.

 

  “I present to you,” Clu went on, “your new ISO co-administrator, Radia.”

 

  Clu motioned at Radia and stepped aside to give place to her on the podium. Applause filled the square. Maybe, Flynn thought as he was driving his bike across the city, maybe it would work. They could come to an agreement and they could find a way to live together peacefully.

 

  “Greetings, programs,” Radia said. “While I am honored to accept this position on this historic occasion, I do it with a heavy heart. For I was to share this honor with Jalen up until his tragic demise. I wish with all my being he could have been here to witness this great moment. However, we must put aside grief. In the wake of loss we must push forward for progress and embrace this new era of cooperation between ISOs and Basics.”

 

  There was a scream and Radia stopped. On the street, far away from the inauguration place, Flynn slowed down his vehicle and stared at the projection. Up there Clu glanced at the source of the scream and took a step back, surprised. Programs began running in fear as a large, hooded figure appeared. It had sick, yellow circuitry. The broadcast ended abruptly; the street was astonishingly quiet after the projected scene.

 

  He sped up and headed straight for the square. He saw programs running and driving away as he got closer closer. From the corner of his eye Flynn spotted something: on the top of a nearby building somebody was running towards the inauguration place. It was a dark figure with light blue circuitry, very fast – he recognized Tron before the program landed on the street, ahead of the slowing light cycle. Flynn looked at the square. A large part of the place was in ruins; scattered remains of programs were lying everywhere. The amber shade of a viral attack could be seen all around.

 

  Clu knelt in the middle, holding something in his hand. Another program was standing next to him: bulky, powerful looking, with an opaque helmet.

 

  “A new type of system monitor?” Clu asked him. “Good timing. Seems I owe you one. A viral attack shouldn’t have been possible.”

 

  He looked down at the broken piece of yellow debris in his hand.

 

  “Perhaps this will give us an answer or two.”

 

  “Clu!” Flynn yelled. He rushed to the square and Tron followed him. “What happened?”

 

  The system administrator turned at him, lifting up the yellow piece: it was a shard from a broken identity disc.

 

  “A virus,” he replied. “It infected many. Both ISOs and Basics.”

 

  Clu’s face was unreadable as he was looking at them; or there was something like mild curiosity in his eyes, as if he was wondering why the two of them were missing the event. Clu did not know about them, Flynn reminded himself, though at times he was not convinced about that.

 

  “Impossible,” blurted out Tron.

 

  “You know this system is closed,” Flynn said. “Nothing gets in without me.”

 

  “And it didn’t,” Clu said. “It was already here. It evolved from the inside. It seems this Abraxas virus was once an ISO.”

 

  The system monitor walked up to them silently.

 

  “No, no way man,” Flynn said. “An ISO wouldn’t do this.”

 

  “How can we know for sure? By definition they’re unpredictable. They have no directive. No ordained function.”

 

  The way Clu was talking, his tone, his gestures – it was a challenge.

 

  “They’re a flaw. I blame myself; I should have seen this coming. And now their unpredictability has progressed into a form that could jeopardize the entire system.”

 

  “The ISOs aren’t flaws,” Flynn said. It was the same argument all over again. “They’re as much a part of the Grid as you are.”

 

  “Flaws, my apologies, I misspoke. I meant deviations.”

 

  “Programs with free will aren’t deviations, Clu. They’re a miracle. It’s my fault you don’t get it. I programmed you: your limits are my doing.”

 

  Clu flinched at those words. Something new appeared in his eyes: pure hate.

 

  “That wasn’t a knock on you, buddy,” Flynn said to ease the situation. “It was a knock on me.”

 

  Clu did not react. Flynn began walking.

 

  “But let’s stay focused on what’s important. Eradicating this virus has to be the priority.”

 

  Clu and Tron stayed motionless. Clu was staring at Tron and the security program was glaring back at him. Then Tron moved.

 

  “Flynn, you should leave the Grid,” he said. “It’s an unnecessary risk being here while we resolve the situation.”

 

  “Right, right. But I’m not sitting this out. You tackle it from in here and I’ll see what I can do from the outside.”

 

  Tron nodded.

 

  “I’ll escort you to the portal,” he said, and then he turned at the silent system monitor. “After I get Flynn out, I’ll rejoin you and provide assistance. Until them, I need you to track down that virus and maintain surveillance on it.”

 

  The system monitor nodded and left. Flynn began leaving without telling Clu another word. Tron followed him quietly. His visit had not exactly turned out the way he had expected, Flynn was thinking. The ISOs would be surely back to Arjia by now; and the events that had interrupted the inauguration would not help the already tense relations.

 

  They walked. What a waste of time, he thought; they could have been much more productive. They could have gone over some plans, could have talked… he should have told Clu something instead of just leaving. But Clu did not make things any easier these days. Flynn looked at Tron, who was walking on his side quietly. The program was looking straight; based on his expression and behavior it was impossible to guess his feelings about the situation.

 

  “Flynn!” Clu yelled. He stopped and the security program next to him looked at the system administrator as well. Clu must have been following them as they had been walking toward the street: or had he? Clu was standing on their right, with a grim expression on his face. Flynn was waiting.

 

  “Am I still to create the perfect system?” Clu asked. Flynn looked back, dumbfounded.

 

  “Yeah,” he replied. Clu took a step back, his cold face disappearing when his helmet materialized around his head. The square which had been deserted after the violent events came to life suddenly as members of the Black Guard entered. They all were holding their activated discs in their hands; their circuits were burning red.

 

  “Go,” Tron said. He was turning around; his eyes were mapping the place and the approaching guards rapidly. The program was very calm and focused – but this was the silence before the storm, Flynn knew that. He started running toward the closest exit; he heard the sound of Tron’s activating disc from behind.

 

  An iron grip closed around his throat. He had lost sight of Clu when the guards had entered. Had Clu known in which direction he would run first? Somehow, his digital clone always seemed to sense his actions in advance. While attempting to escape, he had run straight at Clu.

 

  “You’ve been corrupted,” the system administrator declared. He threw Flynn on the floor. The User began crawling; he was not wounded, merely confused as if he had been dropped in a middle of a nightmare. He glanced back and caught sight of Tron, who was fighting with four Black Guards at the same time. There were red flashes and shattered red pixels hit the floor; but could Tron defeat four of the strongest combat programs Flynn had ever created?

 

  “What…” he breathed. “What…”

 

  Clu was coming at him steadily: with his face covered, striding threateningly, there was no trace of the friendly, helpful program he had once been. Behind Clu the sounds of the fight stopped. Clu did not turn around: the silence could only mean Tron’s defeat.

 

  A moment later Clu was tackled from behind; the system administrator rolled on the ground along with his attacker. It was Tron, with fierce eyes and with his disc in his hand. He punched Clu hard and looked around quickly. There were more guards coming already; their heavy footsteps were approaching fast. Clu, who had been knocked out for a moment, was stirring on the floor.

 

  “Let’s go,” said Tron, hurriedly replacing his disc. They jumped on their feet and ran. Later, throughout the centuries Kevin Flynn would relive that scene in his dreams many times. He would feel the terror again, escaping from the faceless threat. Sometimes other details of the dream would be different: Tron would fight with Clu and he, Kevin Flynn would run for his life, leaving Tron behind. Those dreams would be the worst and he would wake up panting and sweating, forever grateful that things had happened differently, while gentle hands would caress him and turn the nightmares away; soft lips would press against his eyelids and would give him peace.

 

 

II.

 

  He woke up with a twitch. He sat up suddenly and looked at the sky: the beam of the portal was glowing in the distance. Flynn looked up at the tall female program that had woken him with a light shake. She was wearing a dark suit and her face was hidden behind a mask. She turned away and joined the rest of the squad without saying a word.

 

  Flynn stood up. In his dream the portal closed: he had seen it closing so many times that he almost felt surprised now. He looked at the group of warriors around the camp. It was a diverse team, but all the members had something in common; they believed in the User and were ready to fight their way through to the portal for him.

 

  He had been rushing there, right after the coup, just to find that all the routes leading to the portal were demolished, closed or made impossible to approach. All the roads were closed by Clu’s patrols, for everybody; there were no transports, no travel allowed into that direction. The tanks shot down everything that crossed the line. Flynn saw the overseas highway going up in a series of explosions: the debris fell into the unforgiving, dead sea. There was only one way left, through the sky which was now filled with red light jets and Recognizers.

 

  “I’ll talk to him,” Flynn told Tron after they escaped. “Clu’s no fool, he knows that he will achieve nothing, should the portal close.”

 

  “Even if you can establish safe communication with him in time,” Tron replied after short consideration, “you will have no way of telling if there would be real negotiations. And if it is a trap again, if he tries to stop you, then the portal will close and you’ll be stuck here.”

 

  Tron was not looking at Flynn as he was talking; that was unusual.

 

  “What is that?” Flynn asked. Tron glanced at him.

 

  “I should have killed him,” he said. “When I had the chance.”

 

  “You didn’t know. And seeing how the machine started working right after the coup, it seems like all of this has been planned long before. Had Clu died during the coup, we could be at the same place, having to fight our way there.”

 

  “Yes,” Tron replied, looking aside again. “Maybe.”

 

  They were getting ready for the departure, for the final charge at the portal, when the messenger arrived. It was a young ISO in a dark outfit. She was exhausted: she must have been looking for them for long time.

 

  “My name is Quorra,” she told Kevin Flynn when she was escorted into the camp. “Radia sent me to find you.”

 

  The members of the squad were listening silently. Flynn looked at Quorra. It occurred to him for the first time now, that there were no ISOs among the soldiers gathered, among the ones whose loyalty could not be questioned.

 

  “Clu told her you were dead. He asked Radia to contact the ISO faction leaders. He wants them to gather every ISO within our sectors.”

 

  He was listening to Quorra and felt the anger building up inside. He made the decision before she finished.

 

  “I need you to go back to the city with her,” he told Tron after he had pulled the security program away from the others. He saw the shock on Tron’s face and he continued before the program could have begun to protest. “This is very important to me.”

 

  “The only important thing right now is for you to get out,” Tron replied.

 

  “Yes. And if anybody is capable of getting me to the portal, then those are the soldiers you brought me. Thank you for that. But the ISOs will be eradicated by the time I get out.”

 

  Tron’s lips opened, but the program stayed silent. ‘I don’t care’ he wanted to say, Flynn sensed that – and he was not able to utter those words, because it was not true. Flynn put his hands on the program’s shoulders. He knew that he had already won and Tron would leave very soon now, so that he would not waste the time that was left until the closing of the portal.

 

  Their group took off after Quorra and Tron had left. Flynn meant his words, but later he would realize that he had probably saved Tron’s life by sending him away. The program would have tried to deliver him at any cost, Flynn would think while facing dozens of enemy aircrafts not long after the departure, watching the loyal warriors falling one by one. There were simply too many of the Reds and they were firing at everything that moved. More and more jets were coming, along with all the Recognizers as if all the military force of the Grid had been focused in one place and on one goal, to prevent him from escaping. He gave the signal to fall back; by then half of his entourage was slaughtered and more died by the time they got away from the enemy.

 

  They landed. The baton collapsed in his hand and he looked up at the sky, which was painted bloody red by the lights of the aircrafts. In the distance the glowing column of the portal trembled and Kevin Flynn was watching the bridge between the two worlds dissolving. He was standing there for a while, without being able to move. The programs around him were silent and stunned just the same.

 

  And then they were running; shaking off the paralyzing fear, they headed back to the city in a great rush. The life in Tron City appeared to be ordinary from the distance; but the destruction of the ISO sectors was astounding. There was no building which was not damaged or in ruins; dead programs and piles of pixels were lying everywhere. It was almost quiet when the squad arrived: the combat forces which had done the damage had left to chase Flynn during the desperate charge for the portal and they had not returned yet.

 

  Something was moving on the other side of Arjia City, on the borders of the Outlands. It was a huge caravan, leaving the town and heading at the desert. Getting closer Flynn could see that they were all ISOs: most of them were walking, others were riding various vehicles. It was a quiet walk, except for the screams of the wounded from here and there. The group was leaving the city under the protection of ISO and Basic warriors.

 

  They touched down before the caravan. Flynn walked there to meet the leaders of the fugitives. Much to his relief he saw many familiar faces there. There were Radia and Quorra; and also Tron and the system monitor. Tron was looking at him with deep sadness. He must have seen the portal dissolving earlier, instead of being turned down from the outside after the successful escape. Flynn would learn about the events that had led to the exodus later. He would be told that Quorra and Tron arrived to Arjia City just before Clu. By then the attack had begun, claiming the life of the majority of the unsuspecting ISO population.

 

  The two of them were hiding upstairs; down there the reception hall was shaking from the outside explosions. In the middle of the room Radia was standing; she was facing Clu.

 

  “Do what you’re here to do,” she said.

 

  “Oh, we’ll get to that,” Clu replied. He began circling around Radia. “But first, tell me how it feels. The loss of every other ISO of the Grid… Do you feel it?”

 

  “You’re not capable of understanding,” she hissed.

 

  “Enough of this.”

 

  Up there Quorra and Tron were getting ready to intervene; just before they could have moved, they noticed a third program hiding in the shadows. It was a system monitor that had been entrusted with tracking down the virus. Down in the hall heavy footsteps approached and a giant figure entered the room.

 

  “Don’t be afraid, Radia,” he said. “I wasn’t.”

 

  “Jalen…” she said with the mixture of horror and astonishment. “Is that you?”

 

  “Jalen is gone,” the virus replied with scorn. “It’s Abraxas now.”

 

  Radia looked at Clu.

 

  “The accident,” she said. “You didn’t kill him, Clu. You changed him. What did you do?”

 

  Clu walked to Abraxas.

 

  “I simply brought out his true self,” he said. Radia stepped closer to the virus. She raised her hands.

 

  “Jalen… What happened?”

 

  Abraxas pulled back just enough to avoid the touch.

 

  “It doesn’t matter. This is what I am now. And what you will be.”

 

  “A disease,” Clu said, “in case you aren’t following. Like all ISOs.”

 

  He turned back to Radia and reached out to touch her face in a patronizing gesture.

 

  “It just takes a little… encouragement to bring it out.”

 

  “That abomination is not Jalen,” she responded disdainfully. “It’s not an ISO. It’s a perversion you created.”

 

  Clu chuckled.

 

  “Name calling?” he asked. “Really? That’s how you want to go out?”

 

  He turned away and gave Abraxas a nod. The virus lifted his disc – and was blown away by a smaller explosion, when a light grenade went off behind him. The three intruders jumped down from the gallery; Tron threw a second grenade before Clu and his entourage could have realized what was happening. Quorra took Radia’s hand and they were running: the system monitor turned back and blew up the whole reception hall, so that the Reds and Abraxas could not chase them down right away.

 

  Flynn looked at Radia now. She had lost her massive headpiece during their escape. Her expression was grim and mournful: behind her there were all the surviving ISOs. Not even ten thousand; and there would be no more, now that their birthplace, the sea, had been contaminated. They reached the Outlands before the Grid forces returned.

 

  Kevin Flynn established the Bostrum Colony on a large power source, far away in the Outlands. The ISOs stayed there, along with a few Basic refugees. The construction just started and Flynn was standing on a hill nearby, along with Tron.

 

  “We must fight,” Tron said. He was laying out plans already, how they should gather the User-believers, where to attack first and how the Bostrum Colony could be the basis of the rebellion. The program stopped suddenly, his arms fell down. He looked at Flynn curiously, waiting for his response.

 

  “All the ISOs need to be preserved,” Flynn replied. “And the location of the colony should remain secret.”

 

  The program was looking at him, processing the information.

 

  “What about the others?” he asked. He gestured at Tron City in the distance. “We need to fight back.”

 

  “And we will. But without the ISOs; they would not fight anyway.”

 

  “Did they tell you that?” Tron asked. Then he understood. “Radia told you that.”

 

  “There is no other like them,” Flynn said. He tried to explain his point. “There will be no more ISOs coming and if they disappear, they would be gone forever.”

 

  "The Basics who died fighting, they gave their lives for you. They're gone forever too." 

 

  “And their sacrifice will not be for nothing,” Flynn replied patiently. “We will fight and we will take back the system. But without the ISOs, for they are to stay safe until that happens.”

 

  Tron was staring at him wordlessly. Flynn turned away; it was his time now to mourn that other world he might not see again, for his son, to whom he had said goodbye carelessly, and who had been missing his father for months.

 

 

III.

 

  Kevin Flynn opened his eyes at the view of the city. He had been meditating and lost track of time; now the sound of the opening door brought him back to reality. The reality, which was a small hideaway in the black mountains of the Outlands, years or decades after the coup. His desperation had been growing and had almost driven him to insanity; then he had begun to distance himself from certain ideas and happenings.

 

  The idea of Sam growing up without parents.

 

  The view of Tron City in the distance, with red Recognizers hovering above the buildings – the city of once free programs, now living under Clu’s regime.

 

  Radia’s bitter words whenever they talked: watching the once gracious ISO becoming twisted and calculating by the loss and the suffering. While she was pushing for the survival of her own race, Basic refugees no longer would feel welcome at the Bostrum Colony.

 

  Listening to Tron’s pleas for help in the fight against the occupation and having to say no; it was the mere survival that mattered for him and for the ISOs. The eradication of the ISOs or his own death would have meant the very end of all efforts and what that majestic beings could give to the real world – he could not risk that. After a few weak, unorganized efforts to regain power he had retracted, had become deaf to such pleas.

 

  Tron was kneeling behind him and Kevin Flynn felt the program’s forehead pressing against his own shoulder. He turned around. Sometimes Tron would come back from the city beaten or even wounded – this time he was simply exhausted. It was impossible to stop him from returning to the city; he was still going with his own programming, fighting for the User and the inhabitants of the system. It was a pointless battle; the Basics knew that Flynn was alive and that he had abandoned them – for the same reason they were not going to listen to Tron anymore, they were not going to fight.

 

  Flynn took Tron’s face between his hands. The ISOs were the miracle, programs with free will; but Flynn was not certain if this one here was not another wonder - a regular program, going against his very programming, just because he, Flynn asked him to do so… to stay. Maybe, he was thinking, it was the equivalent of his own, human passion, which made him fall in love in this dark, foreign land with somebody that had no knowledge or understanding of the real world… of people.

 

  Tron stiffened for a moment when Flynn pulled him in his arms, and then he relaxed quickly. He was giving up control, Flynn was thinking as he was walking toward his alcove with Tron in his arms. The program’s arms went around his neck and Tron was kissing his face slowly. Flynn put him down on the bed; instead of letting go Tron’s arms tightened around his neck. For a moment he lost his balance. He gave in to the game and let himself fall onto on the sheets.

 

  “You…” he murmured. Tron laughed quietly. Flynn buried his face in the program’s neck; his hands slid down along Tron’s sides. The program’s blue circuitry turned dark quickly. Flynn felt Tron’s hands on his own face. He lifted himself and looked down.

 

  “Come back with me,” the program said. “Together we can defeat the tyrant the way we did it once.”

 

  Flynn looked at him, at the program’s eyes which were glowing with a faint light. And he remembered what the Reds had called Tron on the first Grid, under the rule of the MCP: a fanatic User-believer, a troublemaker.

 

  “Remember who you are fighting for,” he said. The program trembled in his arms and those grey eyes closed; and he must have remembered, because he stopped arguing. Flynn bent down and kissed him; he pressed the program’s wrists against the sheets, his knees slipped between Tron’s legs easily.

 

*******

 

  Centuries later a digital thunder crossed the dark sky. He glanced back from the balcony: in the large room his son, now grown up, was still standing, baffled. Next to him Tron was waiting quietly, apparently not knowing what to say. Sam turned and looked at the white light cycle which was standing at a prominent place in the living room.

 

  “Vintage,” the program said. “It doesn’t get out that much as it used to, but it is still the fastest thing on the Grid.”

 

  Kevin Flynn looked back at the city, and the now open portal beyond that. He glanced down at his hands: wrinkled hands, for he had grown old waiting – but he was alive. They were alive and in the safehouse his son was looking around curiously. Beyond the city the gate to the real world was waiting.

 

  He wanted to smile, yet his expression remained somber; he was watching the city, but instead of the breathtaking view he was seeing the road which had taken them here.


	3. Chapter 3

I.

 

  The roasted pig in the middle of the dining table was facing Sam with a toothless grin. There was a selection of vegetables, corn, green beans, lettuce and mashed potato on plates; also biscuits and fruits. A small bouquet of yellow flowers stood in a vase, next to some green jelly, as part of the illusion. It was unreal; Sam knew that he was not eating real food even before he took a bite from the steamed green beans. It did not taste like beans: it had no flavor at all.

 

  On the other side of the table his father was eating. He did not seem to be hungry and Sam was wondering if they were fumbling with the fake food in an attempt to delay the conversation. On Sam’s left Tron was sitting with a glass; the chalice was filled with some neon blue drink. The program did not pretend eating – he was watching the other two curiously.

 

  “How old are you now, Sam?” Tron asked. His tone was awkward and the words were strange on his lips, as if the question was only meant to break the silence. Sam was grateful for that.

 

  “You should be…” Kevin Flynn started, pouring a drink for himself. “Twenty-seven.”

 

  “Yes, twenty-seven,” Sam confirmed.

 

  “Do you attend a college?” his father asked.

 

  “Caltech.”

 

  Flynn smiled.

 

  “Caltech,” he said proudly. “My Alma mater.”

 

  “Yeah,” Sam replied. “Until I dropped out.”

 

  They were sitting in uncomfortable silence again; his father did not seem to be so proud anymore and Tron was staring at his glass, clueless. Flynn picked up his fork and knife again.

 

  “Work?” he asked. “Job? ENCOM? Are you a…?”

 

  “No,” Sam replied with a grin. “I check in once a year.”

 

  “Wife?” his father asked. “Girlfriend?”

 

  “Dog,” Sam was grinning. “Marvin. A rescue.”

 

  “Oh, dogs… Dogs are cool,” Flynn said with his glass in his hand. They were looking at each other over the packed table. Outside the house a lighting crossed the dark sky.

 

  “I’m sure you must have a few questions of your own, Sam,” his father said. Sam wiped his lips with a napkin. He felt somewhat happy that they were done pretending.

 

  “Actually, just one,” he said.

 

  “Why I never came home,” Flynn said. Sam was looking at him silently. “Those nights when I went to the office, I’m sure you figured it by now, I was coming here. Human form in a digital space. Heavy stuff.”

 

  Flynn took a sip from his glass.

 

  “But I also had you, I had ENCOM, I couldn’t be in here all the time. I needed partners, to help out.”

 

  “Tron and Clu,” Sam said.

 

  “That’s right,” his father replied with a faint smile. He nodded at the program on his right side. “Tron was created by Alan for the old system. I brought him here to protect this one. Clu was my creation: a program, designed to create a perfect world. Oh, we were jamming, man. Building utopia. Hours in here were just minutes back home. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any more profound, something unexpected happened.”

 

  “The miracle,” Sam said.

 

  “A miracle,” his father chuckled. “You remember? ISOs, Isomorphic Algorithms, a whole new life form.”

 

  “And you created them?” Sam asked. Flynn laughed.

 

  “No, no,” he said. “They manifested, like a flame. They weren’t really, really from anywhere. The conditions were right and they came into being. For centuries we dreamed of gods, spirits, aliens, and intelligence beyond our own. I found them in here, like flowers in a wasteland. Profoundly naive; unimaginably wise. They were spectacular. Everything I'd hope to find in the system; control, order, perfection. None of it meant a thing. Been living in a hall of mirrors. The ISOs shattered it, the possibilities of their root code, their digital DNA. Disease? History! Science, philosophy, every idea man has ever had about the universe up for grabs. Biodigital jazz, man. The ISOs, they were going to be my gift to the world.”

 

  Sam was looking at his father while Flynn was speaking. Between them Tron was looking at Flynn too; and Sam noticed that the program’s expression turned cold when his father had started to talk about the ISOs. Then the program glanced down at the small data pad in his hand.

 

  “What is that?” Flynn asked.

 

  “Radia is demanding immediate audience,” Tron replied. His face was unreadable and so was Kevin Flynn’s expression.

 

  “Then bring her,” Flynn said. Tron stood up without a word and left the residence.

 

  “So what happened?” Sam asked.

 

  “Clu. Clu happened. There was a coup.”

 

  His father talked about the rebellion and Sam listened with growing disbelief.

 

  “Why didn’t you fight?”

 

  “We did. Clu fed on my resistance. The more I fought, the more powerful he became. It was impressive, really. And my miracle? Clu saw the ISOs as an imperfection, so he destroyed most of them.”

 

  “Most of them?”

 

  “Since then the survivors live in the Bostrum Colony, located at the Outlands. Their leader is Radia.”

 

  His father looked at him.

 

  “I tried to get back, but I couldn’t get to the portal. It uses massive power and it can’t stay open forever. And like a safe, it can be only opened from the outside. It closed on me, Sam. That’s why I never came home.”

 

  Sam stood up and walked to the balcony. Beyond the great, dark plains there was the city in the distance and the light of the portal. He crossed the curtain of tiny lights, which separated the balcony from the main room and stepped out to the terrace.

 

  “So the portal,” he said, pointing at the light “It activated when I came in. So it’s open now.”

 

  “Not for long,” his father responded, following him to the balcony. “Only one milicycle. About eight hours.”

 

  “So we go now. Go home, we make a run for it. We get you out of here…”

 

  “Sam, don’t rush.”

 

  “What do you mean, don’t rush?” Sam chuckled and pointed at the ray of light once more. “The portal’s gonna close.”

 

  His father was silent.

 

  “What?” Sam asked again, dumbfounded. “What is it?”

 

  “The moment I am on the Grid, Clu will stop at nothing to obtain my disc. My disc is everything, Sam, it’s the master key. The golden ticket, the way out. And not just for me.”

 

  “What do you mean?”

 

  “Our worlds are more connected than anyone knows. Clu figures if I can be in…”

 

  “He can be out?” Sam asked, incredulously.

 

  “With my disc, it’s possible.”

 

  “And then, what?”

 

  “Game over,” Flynn said, his eyes on the city view. “The guy doesn’t dig imperfection.”

 

  He turned to his son.

 

  “What’s more imperfect than our world?” he asked. “I can’t let that happen. I won’t.”

 

  “So what do we do?” Sam asked. He was missing something, he was certain about that; he had not been told the truth. “Nothing?”

 

  “It’s amazing how productive doing nothing can be. Clu is planning something; we’ve known that for a while. Programs have been disappearing, there’s unrest out there. Even revolution. If we sit tight, Clu might be brought down from the inside.”

 

  “The portal is closing, we can’t just sit around. We have to move now,” Sam insisted. His father looked at him once more.

 

  “Tell me,” Flynn said, “What brought you here, to the Grid?”

 

  “Alan got your page,” Sam replied impatiently.

 

  “I didn’t send any page,” Flynn said with a bitter smile. “It was Clu. Clu sent that page, that’s why you’re here. This is all his design. He wanted a new piece on the board to change the game. With you he got more than he ever dreamed. This is precisely what he wants: us, together, heading for the portal. It’s his game now. The only way to win is not to play.”

 

  Sam was speechless. It was wrong: his father was wrong, even if he were honest, even if he believed his own words. Clu, Clu; Flynn seemed to be convinced, that his own program was behind the whole conspiracy, that the system administrator had enough knowledge and power to execute such plan. Sam was much more wary about believing that Clu could make it through the portal. And if he did; then what? Clu would stand there alone, in the middle of nothing, without any practical knowledge of that world. It just did not seem to be a reasonable fear; it did not seem to be a real reason for them to wait. Sam meant to tell all that to his father – but Flynn turned his back at him and walked away.

 

  “You know, that’s a hell of a way to live,” Sam said.

 

  “But it is a way,” Flynn replied. Sam followed him, making one more attempt to convince him.

 

  “We can go home,” he said. “Don’t you want that?”

 

  “Sometimes life has a way of moving you past things like wants and hopes,” Flynn replied.

 

  A solid, white wall started to emerge and close the balcony, before Sam could have responded.

 

  “They are coming,” his father said. They stepped inside and the wall slipped in place, hiding the view of the city. A closed door on the wall began to glow.

 

“What is that?” Sam asked.

 

  “The other side of that door opens in a room in the Bostrum Colony. Our guests are coming.”

 

  “They can walk in here whenever they want?”

 

  “Nobody can open that door without its key and nobody knows where this house is located.”

 

  Sam looked back at the white wall behind. With the view from the balcony hidden, the room could have been anywhere. He turned back at the glowing door. It opened and two women entered the room. The first one was tall, with the appearance of a queen. She was wearing a long, black dress and a large, black headdress. The circuits on her gown and face were bright green. Her eyes were intense, curious and her expression was grim. A female guard followed Radia: she was wearing an armored, black suit and was carrying a long staff. She had short, black hair and piercing, blue eyes. Her circuitry was glowing with bright, green light as well.

 

  Behind them Tron closed the door and held the knob until the blaze went out. _He had the password,_ Sam realized, _or much rather, he was the password that opened the door_. For the first time now he wondered, how much his father must have trusted this program.

 

  Radia regarded Sam with a friendly nod and then she turned at Kevin Flynn. They walked away and began to talk quietly. Sam turned and met the other guest’s shy smile.

 

  “I’m Quorra,” she said and extended a gloved hand at Sam. He shook her hand. She was still holding her staff and was keeping an eye on Radia and Flynn, but she seemed to be interested in talking to Sam. Tron remained at the closed door, in an apparent alert state; he was not watching them and was too far to hear any of the conversations.

 

  She pointed at the Go board which was laid on a short stand on the floor. Sam had noticed the board earlier and had been wondering, with whom his father was playing – somehow he doubted that it was Tron.

 

  “Do you know it?” she asked. “He’s patience usually beats out my more… aggressive strategy.”

 

  Sam looked at her; he understood that she was more than Radia’s bodyguard – possibly a friend or apprentice to Flynn. Quorra looked at him and then at the long bookshelf behind them.

 

  “Flynn shared them with me,” she said, touching a random book. “I’ve read them all.”

 

  “Huh,” Sam shrugged. “Light reading. Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, I Ching. Journey Without a Goal. Must have a killer ending.”

 

  “Flynn is teaching me about the art of the selfless,” she said, with a volume in her free hand. “About removing oneself from the equation. But between you and me, Jules Verne is my favorite.”

 

  She looked at the book in her hand, grinning.

 

  “Do you know Jules Verne?” she asked.

 

  “Sure,” he replied.

 

  “What’s he like?” she asked excitedly. At the other side of the large room Flynn raised his voice and they both glanced at that direction. Radia and Flynn were arguing; a moment later the conversation went quiet again, but Sam got the idea. Radia was trying to convince his father about an escape plan, to leave and make a run for the portal.

 

  Sam turned back to Quorra. After the short interruption she was listening to him again with an eager smile. Quorra did her best to make him like her; and she succeeded already. Why not: and it was his own father who had told him how great and important these creatures were. And it seemed like they were on the same page; the ISOs wanted Flynn to save himself as well. If Flynn did not want to listen to his son, maybe he was going to listen to Radia and so they could start making an escape plan. Yes, Sam decided, he definitely liked them.

 

  But it was not going well; even from the distance, even from their very gestures Sam figured that his father was not going to let in. He felt increasingly worried. Quorra stepped closer to him.

 

  “If he refuses to save himself,” he said quietly. “Then I will.”

 

  “How?” Quorra asked in a low voice. Sam looked at her. It was not trust which made him reply; one could easily guess his plan anyway.

 

  “I’m going to the portal,” he said. “Clu wants Flynn’s disc, not mine. I’m going to find Alan and we’re going to figure this thing from the other side. This maybe Clu’s game here, but in my world he’s gone in one keystroke. But I can’t do anything unless I get to the portal.”

 

  He looked at his father and Radia again. The ISO leader’s face was dark and disappointed; from her expression Sam figured that Flynn had refused to change his mind and the conversation was coming to an end shortly.

 

  Quorra glanced back at Tron. The security program was not looking at them. She brought out a small information disc from her pocket. She slipped it to Sam carefully.

 

  “There’s someone I once knew,” she said. “A program, named Zuse, who fought alongside the ISOs. They say he can get anyone, anywhere.”

 

  “How do I find him?” Sam asked quietly. Quorra glanced down at the disc.

 

  “This is his sector. Make it there alive and he’ll find you.”

 

  There was no time for anything else: Radia turned away from Kevin Flynn and began to walk at them. Her face was stern and her expression did not reveal her disappointment. She gave Sam another short nod before Tron opened the door and the three of them departed.

 

  Sam looked at his father. The white wall at the balcony retracted when the guests left and Kevin Flynn was standing there, watching the city once again.

 

  “Good night, Sam,” he said and walked away without looking at him. The lights turned off when Flynn left the room and Sam stayed there in the darkness. He looked around. The door on the wall was still glowing. Soon Tron was going to be on the way back; and there was no way for Sam to leave the safehouse with the security program around. He had to make his decision right now.

 

  He looked at the white light cycle which was standing close to him in the dimness. The information disc he had been given must have been compatible with the vehicle: he should be able to make it. Could he trust the ISO? His father had talked about them with great respect. Also, Sam’s arrival to the Grid had been a surprise for everybody, the ISOs could not have come up with some elaborate plan to lead him into danger. Or he could wait for Tron to return and try to talk to him. But Tron had been ensuring Flynn’s safety since centuries: had Sam failed to convince him about his plan, Tron would stop him from leaving and then he, Sam could watch the closing portal from the balcony.

 

  He started. He rolled the bike to the elevator; he waited there for a moment, then the plate began to descend.

 

 

II.

 

  The vehicle was closing the distance between the Outlands and the city rapidly. Once on the even, clean pavement of the inhabited area, Sam sped up and headed straight at the town center. The white light cycle was just as easy to drive as the other bike in the Arena had been, except this one was faster, lighter – better. After he had attached Quorra’s info disc, the dashboard had lit up; all he had to do was to follow the suggested route.

 

  Streetlights appeared and were left behind one by one, along with a security outpost. Sam could not worry about that: should he succeed, he would be at the portal by the time they reacted. That was what he hoped for; to get at least a bit lucky. There were sentries all over the place and Sam drove the bike into a dark alleyway, not far from his destination. He saw somebody sitting there. It was some regular program in a cape, holding a bottle in his hand. The program seemed to be harmless, idle.

 

  “Hey man,” Sam muttered as he got out the vehicle, “it’s your lucky day.”

 

  He left the bike open, unattended and still rumbling: after a moment of disbelief the program jumped to his feet. Sam was watching him driving out from the alley; the sentries that were identifying programs turned after the unique looking bike immediately.

 

  “Stop,” they were yelling. “Stop!”

 

  They activated their own light cycles and began to chase the program. Sam looked after them; he pulled his hood over his head and started at the tall building on the other side of the street.

 

  “Sam Flynn,” a robotic, familiar voice said. He stopped and looked at the program that was walking toward him. “You remember me?”

 

  It was a female program, the one he had talked to in the Armory. She was wearing a transparent rain coat over her white dress and she was holding a light-rimmed umbrella.

 

  “Yeah,” he said. “You gave me some advice.”

 

  “And you followed it,” she said. “It’s unfortunate we met the way we did.”

 

  She wore her faint smile just as she wore her outfit: Sam could not tell what was behind her helpfulness, behind her sudden appearance. And this was not the time and place he wanted to take chances.

 

  “You have a good night,” he said and started to leave.

 

  “You’re looking for someone,” she stated. Sam turned back at her.

 

  “What makes you say that?” he asked. She looked him up and down.

 

  “Intuition,” she said. Sam glanced up at the tall building.

 

  “His name is Zuse,” he said.

 

  “You came to the right place,” she said and gestured at the elevator. There were several Red guards around them and a tank was rolling down the street. Sam remained motionless. She could have given him away with a word.

 

  “Come,” she said and hooked her arm into his. Nobody bothered them as they made their way to the entrance. She pushed a button and the doors of the elevator opened. The transparent cabin ascended with great speed and he was turning his head around, stunned by the city view. She collapsed her umbrella and took off her rain coat; then she reached out for his cape silently. She folded the cloth with a single motion when Sam handed it to her. The elevator stopped: they were on the top floor.

 

  The doors opened and Sam looked at her. She nodded and they walked out from the cabin. He heard upbeat music; and at the end of the short forefront there was a club indeed, full of people walking around, talking and drinking. The two programs at the entrance let them in without saying a word. A woman in white came immediately to take the folded coats from Sam’s companion. He was admitted right away because of her, Sam realized, but the idea did not ease his worries. The club was packed and he saw several Red guards around; had things gone downhill, he could not make it out from the place easily.

 

  “Relax,” she said as she was leading him through the great lounge. “They’re occupied.”

 

  That seemed to be true as the sentries were rather interested in the female attendants of the club than in the rest of the visitors. The other guests however did notice Sam’s arrival: they turned at him, others rose from their seats and were staring at him intensely. He kept on looking around, at the programs around him, the guards, at the masked DJs upstairs in their box. He heard a hysterical laugh from the direction of the bar.

 

  “His name is Castor,” she informed Sam. “You want to speak to Zuse, you’re going to have to go through him.”

 

  “Where is your sense of humor, my friend?” the preciously heard, high-pitched voice asked. After a few more steps Sam spotted the program on the top of a short staircase. He was dressed in white and he was holding a white cane; his skin and hair was also white. He was talking to a group of tough-looking programs: latter ones were dressed in black, with light blue circuits. Their leader was a tall program with dark features and a large, deep facial scar.

 

  “Programs are disappearing, Castor,” he said. “Soon none of us will be left. Zuse can unite the factions, foment revolution.”

 

  Castor was looking around, dancing to the music.

 

  “Of course Zuse can do these things,” he said absentmindedly. He did not appear to be inclined to actually help those programs.

 

  “Grant me an audience,” the dark skinned program demanded.

 

  “Your enthusiasm is intoxicating, my dear Bartik, but Zuse's time is precious. We – shall – see,” he said, grinning, giving extra emphasis to every word with a pointed finger. Sam’s companion went upstairs, walked to Castor and whispered something in his ear. Castor turned and looked at Sam; the white-haired program suddenly became focused.

 

  “If you'll excuse me for a moment, I have to… attend to something. But have a drink,” he said, turning away from Bartik and coming downstairs to Sam. “Courtesy of the End of Line club.”

 

  Castor grabbed Sam’s arm and began to lead him away.

 

  “Come,” he said. “Away from these primitive functions. The son of Flynn! Of all the innumerable possibilities he has to walk into mine.”

 

  He let go of Sam’s arm and turned back at the guests that were sitting at the bar.

 

  “Libations for everybody!” he exclaimed, with his cane held up in the air. The guests yelled cheerfully upon the announcement.

 

  “I’m Castor, your host,” he told Sam when he rejoined the boy. “Provider of any and all entertainments and diversions.”

 

  Castor bowed deeply with mock reverence.

 

  “At your service,” he said. He was smiling at Sam expectantly.

 

  “I’m looking for Zuse,” Sam said.

 

  “Indeed,” Castor said. “Many are.”

 

  “Where can I find him?”

 

  “This, dear sire, is a conversation best had behind closed doors. Perhaps we should retire to my private lounge.”

 

  Castor started to walk again and Sam followed him, along with his female companion. Castor knocked the floor with his cane and a glowing staircase emerged.

 

  “Ah,” he said. “I designed it myself, you know. It’s true!”

 

  Castor went upstairs. Halfway he stopped and looked at the DJs in their box.

 

  “I’m stepping away for a moment, boys,” he told them. “Change the scheme, alter the mood! Electrify the boys and girls if you’d be so kind.”

 

  The masked musicians nodded and a moment later another, faster rhythm filled the club.

 

  “Thank you,” Sam told his companion.

 

  “Gem,” she replied with her usual, faint smile. “My name is Gem.”

 

  Together they went upstairs.

 

 

III.

 

  “Zuse has been around since the earliest days of the gaming Grid,” Castor said. He was standing at the small counter of his private lounge. Gem was sitting on one of the large, black couches, listening silently. Sam walked to the counter.

 

  “By necessity,” Castor went on, “he has to mind all the percentages. All the angles.”

 

  “So when do I meet him?” Sam asked. Castor gave him a tall glass of neon blue drink.

 

  “You just did,” he said, smiling. Sam smiled as well and looked back at Gem, who was sitting there with unreadable face. Sam took the drink.

 

  “After the Purge I needed to reinvent myself,” Castor said. “Self-preservation, you understand.”

 

  He clinked glasses with Sam and they drank.

 

  “Now, what can I do for you?”

 

  “I need to get to the portal,” Sam replied.

 

  “Well, it’s closing quickly. As I’m sure, you’re aware. Tick-tock, tick-tock.”

 

  Castor stepped out from behind the counter. He picked up his cane and walked to the entrance of the lounge.

 

  “And it’s quite the journey,” he said. “Beyond the far reaches of the Outlands.”

 

  With his cane he pointed at the window, at the distant light of the portal. Sam followed him, taking another sip from his drink.

 

“Your father didn’t want any programs slipping out accidentally, did he.”

 

  “Can you help me?” Sam asked.

 

  “Of course,” Castor laughed again. “But first as a man who prides himself on staying well informed, I must ask, who sent you my way?”

 

  Sam hesitated for a moment about giving out the name. But Quorra and Castor must have been in good terms and Castor probably knew the answer anyway.

 

  “Her name is Quorra,” he said. “She said she met you a long time ago.”

 

  “Indeed she did,” Castor responded. For a second something, maybe the shadow of real concern crossed his face. “Many cycles ago.”

 

  Gem rolled her eyes, but did not offer a comment.

 

  “It was a different time,” Castor continued. “But we’re not here to relive the past. Let’s see about your future, shall we? Now, we’ll have to, uh… change your attire, and you’ll need a forged disc. Not easy these day, by the way. And of course you’ll need transport to cross the Sea of Simulation.”

 

  Castor turned at Sam once more and extended his arms.

 

  “This is going to be quite a ride,” he said. Behind him there was an explosion and people screamed. Red combat programs had broken through the upper windows, Sam realized, killing unsuspecting guests with their sudden intrusion. Programs were running for their lives as the intimidating looking Red programs straightened themselves and pulled out their weapons.

 

  There were screams and music; the DJs did not stop when the violence erupted, they rather just switched the melody. That was out of place and so was Castor’s apparent lack of concern regarding the destruction.

 

  “I believed in Users once before,” the white haired program told Sam. He was not smiling anymore. Sam glanced at Gem, who was sitting there, unaffected. They had been stalling and he was betrayed, Sam knew that now.

 

  “Playing all the angles,” Sam uttered. He started running at the entrance and Castor did the mock bow once more. The glowing stairs were gone, so Sam jumped, unlocking his disc amidst the fall. Bartik, who saw him escaping, howled.

 

  “Resist!”

 

  He and his followers were fighting; and died a moment later by the hands of the Reds. Others came running, the security programs of the club, just to be slaughtered just the same.

 

  “The game has changed, son of Flynn,” Castor yelled at Sam from his lounge. On his side Gem appeared and was staring down at him with her blank smile. “Behold the son of our maker!”

 

  Sam was still on his knees. The Reds turned at him now; and he was going to fight, even if he had no idea how. A dark shade crossed the air with impossible speed and suddenly there was somebody between Sam and the Reds. The program had his helmet on, but Sam recognized Tron from his circuitry. Tron lifted his masked face and looked up at Castor. The club owner, who had been enjoying the chaos from his safe spot, quit laughing immediately and retracted into his private lounge right away.

 

  The Reds attacked and the world around Sam suddenly became a mix of screams, sparkles; kicks and punches were coming down on him and a glowing red disc. He blocked the disc with his own, just to see a bright sword aimed at him right away. There were two of the enemies against them: the rest was fighting with resisting programs all around the club. Most of the guests were trying to escape the slaughter and destruction.

 

  Tron threw a Red program back and turned at the one that was fighting with Sam immediately. And Sam remembered that Tron had once defeated four of these soldiers alone; but back in the days Tron had not had somebody behind his back to look out for. And the Reds must have learned from their previous mistakes as well; that, along with the fact that they apparently tried to capture Sam alive, resulted in a desperate, vicious fight now.

 

  A powerful kick knocked Sam off of his feet. He fell back, with his hands on his aching ribs. With him out from the struggle, both Reds jumped at Tron. The security program got his legs kicked out under him; a red baton emerged quickly as he was falling on his knees. The baton came down with great speed and force and collided with Tron’s helmet, shattering it to pieces.

 

  Sam jumped and managed to throw both soldiers off of their feet. Knowing that he had a short moment only, before they would attack again, he kneeled down next to Tron. The security program lay there with eyes closed. The hit he had received could have killed anybody; Tron seemed to be alive, but unconscious. The shards of his helmet were lying scattered on the floor.

 

  He felt the air freezing. The lights went out and there was a strange surge of power. The music stopped along with all the movements in the club. When people started again, it appeared that the rebels wakened quicker from the temporary disruption, that the Reds were left dazed. Sam looked up and he saw his father straightening himself. Kevin Flynn was wearing a hooded, black cape and black boots; his appearance was very different from how he had looked like back in the safehouse. For the first time now Sam saw his father the way programs must have seen him: as a ruler, the Creator.

 

  Flynn walked there with hurried steps and looked down at Sam and Tron.

 

  “Let’s split, man,” he said. He put Tron’s fallen disc back to its port and helped Sam to lift up the program from the floor. He stayed behind Sam, providing cover during the escape. As they were rushing to the elevator, Sam saw somebody falling on their knees in awe upon seeing Flynn. Then they reached the elevator and the doors closed behind them. Sam put Tron down; immediately after there was an explosion. The cubicle shook and began to fall.

 

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Sam uttered and began tapping on the elevator dashboard. Nothing happened and the cubicle remained in freefall. His father was standing there in stunned silence “A little help here, maybe.”

 

  Flynn tapped the transparent wall of the elevator. Glowing lines appeared under his hand and he started to enter a revised code. The falling cube reached the street level, but instead of a crash a door opened and the descent continued into a dark abyss. More and more levels on the digital underworld got revealed before the fall slowed down and they finally stopped. The door of the elevator opened; they were in a large hangar. Just then did Sam notice that his father’s disc was missing and his heart skipped a beat.

 

  “Your disc,” he whispered. “Dad, it’s gone.”

 

  “It is,” his father replied.

 

  “I’m sorry,” Sam said desperately. “I know I messed up. We can go back… I can go back.”

 

  “No, we stay together.”

 

  “Dad, I can do this…”

 

  “You’ve done enough already,” Flynn burst out. “Sam, you’re really… You’re messing with my Zen thing, man.”

 

  Flynn turned to Tron. The program was lying on his side on the floor. His eyes were still closed and his face was peaceful. Flynn touched his face.

 

  “He’s stable,” he said. He stood up and turned away from Sam, so his expression was hidden.

 

  “So what do we do know?” Sam asked.

 

  “I don’t know,” his father replied, irritated. “Nothing. We do nothing. Be still. Wait.”

 

  Sam bowed his head. Though they were out from the safehouse, they were yet unable to move, because of his father’s opposition. But he could not argue; his own ways just led them into an almost lethal trap. Outside of the cubicle the hangar was empty and yet it seemed to be alive as the applications were working and a large aircraft was being powered up.

 

  “You ever jumped a freight train?” Flynn asked suddenly.

 

  “Huh?” Sam asked, dumbfounded.

 

  “We do it your way,” his father said. “It’s a long sprint to the portal. If we beat Clu there we have a chance.”

 

  He looked down at Tron.

 

  “Let’s get him out of here,” he said. He took Tron in his arms and they started at the rumbling aircraft. Once on board Sam felt the floor shaking as the ship was about to depart. There was no crew: it appeared to be a cargo ship, a freight train indeed.

 

  “This will take us there,” Flynn said when he put down Tron. The large, glowing wings of the aircraft moved and the ship began to slide along a massive cluster of energy.

 

  “Is he going to make it?” Sam asked, looking at Tron. He had not dared to ask the question until then.

 

  “Sure,” Flynn said, almost absentmindedly.

 

  “He risked himself for me.”

 

  “Some things are worth the risk,” Flynn said calmly. The ship ascended in a quick pace, and a breathtaking view of the empire appeared below.

 

  “Come on,” Flynn said and he stood up. “It’s going to take a while for his system to reboot. Now it’s time for you to tell me a story.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

I.

 

  The house was dark when he arrived. His light cycle collapsed into a baton and he stepped into the elevator. Upon entering the residence Tron immediately noticed the empty space where the old, white bike had used to stand. He turned. Flynn was standing outside on the unlit balcony, facing the city in the distance. The User wore boots and a black cape; an outfit he had not been wearing since cycles.

 

  The program crossed the curtain of tiny lights which separated the room from the balcony. He knew what had happened without asking.

 

  “Prepare the Light Runner, Tron,” Flynn said. “We’re going downtown.”

 

  Tron stopped next to him. This was the moment he had been waiting for so many cycles; for the User to shake off the frozen inertness, to step out and fight for his own dominion.

 

  “Thank you for bringing my son to me,” Flynn said. He was smiling, but without much happiness – his expression was very serious and determined.

 

  “Flynn…” the program started. They had to leave: by now Sam Flynn must have crossed several checkpoints. He was going to be tracked down very soon now – and the bike would be traced back to the point of origin. They were standing on the balcony of the safehouse, which had been their home for so long, for the last time.

 

  “There is no choice, Tron” Flynn said, turning to the program. He must have thought that Tron would try to make him stay behind and that idea seemed to add fuel to the fire. “I won’t lose him again.”

 

  They were looking at each other silently for a long moment.

 

  “Chaos,” Flynn said bitterly. “Good news.”

 

  The tracker of the white bike was blinking on the dashboard of the light runner as their vehicle was crossing the Outlands. Back in the cycles they had always known where the other had been, User and program – and now it came handy as they had to locate the bike for one last time. Tron recognized the place on the digital map as they were getting closer to the city center: the End of Line Club. He expected many guards in the area, he expected fight to get in; but the surroundings streets had already been evacuated by the time they arrived and there were red jets circling above the building.

 

  They left the vehicle in front of the entrance – it did not matter anymore. The elevator took them to the top floor quickly; Tron brought out his disc and a baton before the cubicle reached the level of the club. And then everything was screaming and there were running programs all around once the doors opened and the chaotic scene inside the club got revealed. Tron jumped forward, full of anger at the Black Guards that were using their superior skills they had been once given to protect the system – to slaughter civilians. He spotted Sam Flynn immediately: the young User was surrounded by the enemy in the middle of the club. There were too many of them, but Tron ran there anyway, leaving Flynn behind.

 

  There was a moment of silence before the storm broke out. With Sam Flynn behind his back Tron looked around and then up, at the laughing Castor in his private lounge. Tron tilted his head with a silent promise and the club owner stopped laughing immediately. Then the attack started with vicious kicks and punches; and when Sam Flynn was thrown out from the ring, the program knew that the fight was over. A red baton came down with great speed and the world went dark.

 

  Offline.

 

 

II.

 

  They walked. The bright, green light of the emerging Bostrum Colony surrounded them; buildings were growing out from the unforgiving, black ground all around, life in the Outlands, where it had not been planned to thrive. Tron was following Flynn and the ISOs from farther behind. The ISO leaders, Radia and her entourage were escorting the User around, informing him about the new developments.

 

  Tron looked aside and spotted a few familiar faces. Before him Flynn and the ISOs were talking and there were dozens of ISO guards as well. He changed route and walked down to the group of Basics, that were working on a separate establishment. They greeted each other: it was an unsmiling reunion as they were building their new lives as refugees – but at least they were alive. Tron saw the helmeted system monitor with a green-circuited ISO on his side. They waved hands at one another. It was like that: similar fate or not, the Basic refugees lived in separation within the colony, except for a few ISOs that joined them for their own reasons. Yet it was a safe place for them; they were free.

 

  There were signs: and later Tron would be blaming himself for the following events, for not being able to intervene on time.

 

  “Could you establish another settlement for our people?” he asked the User once, when they were alone, back at their own hiding place.

 

  “So they could get more isolated, with more small groups that would fight each other?” Flynn asked. Tron did not answer; he did not have answers, just a growing sense of worry and insecurity. He visited the Bostrum Colony more often, sometimes without the User, just to be assured, only to see them safe. He saw the looks the ISOs gave him and heard the indecent remarks – but those were only aimed at him and not at the Basics in general.

 

  Driving through the black desert sometimes he saw the yellow light of the virus in the distance. It was long before that Tron had given up chasing after Abraxas: the virus was hiding from him and would avoid confrontation with Basic programs at all cost. The virus was, on the other hand, very much interested in the ISOs; he would snatch and kill any of them, that would wander too close to the borderlands of the colony and his howling would be heard throughout the settlement all the time. For that constant music filled the streets of Bostrum Colony; not the relaxing, ambient melody of the lost Arjia City, but some wild, loud tone, only meant to suppress the echo of that mad screaming.

 

  He was alone when he visited the colony for the last time before the disaster. After meeting the Basic refugees, Tron took off to look around the city. Walking along the busy streets he came to realize once more that they had lost: nothing could bring back Arjia, just as there was no way to win back Tron City. It was taunting; his city, his welcome gift in the distance – but he could not even go there, if not in disguise. Should there be another war, should the city be delivered back in Flynn’s hands, it would never be the same, never the safe haven it had once been.

 

  Many programs on the street were walking into the same direction, and Tron let the crowd take him into the great sanctuary. That was another ISO invention: most Basics did worship Users as well, but that devotion was rather practical, part of the job. This spiritualism, the mass gatherings for communion belonged to the ISOs. The crowd filled the large space quickly and settled in an orderly manner. The dome was enormous, with thin walls and a cupola above – a reminiscent of the Arjian architecture.

 

  Up there, above the crowd there was an outreach, an empty platform. Now a door opened behind and a small group of programs appeared. They were dressed in black and their skin and outfits were illuminated by their green circuitry. On their lead it was Radia, in her black gown and headdress she had started wearing after the flight from Arjia. Low chanting began and Tron felt like he could hear Abraxas’ scream behind the murmur, from outside the walls. Then the song ended and Radia was speaking: her clear voice filled the space. She talked about the sea, from where their kind had emerged, about the great days of Arjia and about the escape. She talked about the life they had to endure and the future, in which they would make their way into the User world, where they would join their Creator and fulfill their prophecies.

 

  “My vision is clear,” she said. “Out there is a new world. Out there is our victory. Out there… is out destiny.”

 

  Tron blinked. He knew those words; it had always been the plan, he had heard everything from Kevin Flynn many times – but it was different now, from Radia. Perhaps the tone, merely the way she talked, which made that great plan sounding somehow differently, somewhat as a… threat.

 

  The crowd around him was moving slowly with a soft, undulating motion. Programs were standing so close to each other, one could not bend, had they dropped something on the floor. They were chanting. Tron looked up and his eyes met Radia’s cold stare. She could not be seeing him, he thought; she was standing so high above the crowd and his distinguishing, blue circuitry was mostly hidden in the sea of green lights. At the same moment he felt an arm hooked around his neck from behind. Everything happened at once, as if the ISOs, that had not been paying much attention to him until then, moved as parts of the same mechanism. The ones standing around him reached out in unison and grabbed his arms before he could have gotten any of his weapons. He had thought it would be impossible for the crowd to part, but now they retracted just enough so that he could be slammed against the floor.

 

  He almost got knocked out when the back of his head hit the hard floor. When he opened his eyes, he saw the crowd standing around him; he was lying on the ground, pinned down by the ISOs. Some of them were grinning, but most of them seemed to be indifferent, waiting to see what would happen. Tron was waiting as well: he could not fight with hundreds of programs at the same time. A tall, female soldier was standing right above him; she was looking upwards, at the platform which Tron could not see from the crowd. Whatever silent communication took place, that was hidden from Tron, but when the soldier turned back to him, her expression was disappointed.

 

  He was pulled up from the ground. The ISOs turned away as if nothing had happened, as if they had not been ready to kill him just moments earlier. Tron looked up: the platform was now empty and the gathering ended. The crowd began to stream out from the cathedral.

 

  The distress signal came in shortly after. Tron was outside of the safehouse when his data pad came to life. He was running and the opening baton materialized as a light cycle in his hands. He did not even think about alerting the User: Flynn was in the middle of a meditation and the program was not going to get him involved before confirming the nature of the situation.

 

  The district where the Basic refugees had used to live in the Bostrum Colony, was now empty. There were the signs of a struggle; cracks on the pavement and rubbish everywhere on the ground. After short, frantic search he found the few ISOs that had once shared this place with the outcasts. They were wandering around aimlessly, devastated, some of them were wounded. From the way they acted Tron could tell that they had been attacked some time before – that it was too late now. The data pad from where the emergency signal had been sent was lying on the pavement, next to Gibson. The green-circuited ISO was sitting on the ground; he was incapacitated by a deep wound drawn across his upper body.

 

  From the survivors Tron learned that ISO warriors had come and taken all the Basics. Their fate was unknown for a while: the district had been under lockdown and the survivors had just very recently obtained the data pad and learned that the programs apprehended had been sent back to Tron City.

 

  Tron jumped on his feet. He understood that it was too late, but that knowledge would not stop him from getting on his bike and following the trail the banished must have taken. He was hopeful; that they had been lucky and had made it back. Had they been able to cross the border unnoticed, they could hide, find the local splinter cells. But those hopes were dashed soon; Tron saw the place where the fight had taken place from afar. He slowed down and then stopped his bike. They had gotten close to the city limits: and then they had been ambushed by a patrol. Pixels were lying everywhere and Tron saw the spot where a Recognizer had landed. He knelt down and looked at the remains. Not enough, he realized: a few of them had perished during the attack, but most of them had been taken to the city, presumably alive.

 

  Slowly he stood up and turned. There was no rush – everything was done here. Tron got back on his bike and returned to the colony. Nobody got in his way as he was driving toward the administration tower. The ISO guards around the building did not stop him; they were just glaring at him darkly. Tron went upstairs. The reception hall was mostly empty, except for a few ISOs in black capes next to the main wall. He stopped. The virus was screaming somewhere in the Outlands – or was it laughing?

 

  Radia entered the room, surrounded by her guards. Quorra was standing the closest to her: the younger ISO’s face was blank and she was holding her staff steadily. Radia stopped in the middle and looked at Tron. The guards stood around her in a seemingly random formation.

 

  “They were on your side,” Tron said. “Even when it became dangerous. And you sent them into their deaths.”

 

  “No,” she said. “I sent them home.”

 

  “They fought for you,” Tron replied. His voice was calm, but inside his programming and his intentions strained against each other. He was supposed to protect life, to preserve the ISOs – yet he wanted to take out his disc and kill everybody in the room. “By now they are dead or they wish they would be.”

 

  “Go and blame for that the User’s lapdog, Clu. I only did what I had to in order to save my people.”

 

  “How did you save them? All of them knew the location of the colony. Once Clu gets to see their discs, the whole army of the Grid will be upon you.”

 

  She smiled.

 

  “They don’t know,” she said. “They forgot.”

 

  Tron was looking at her, confused. Then he understood; Radia was a system administrator as well.

 

  “You deleted the information from their discs,” he said. He was speaking slowly. “And then you released them outside of the colony, as far as your guards could take them without being attacked by Abraxas.”

 

  Radia’s face distorted at the name. It took her some time to regain her composure.

 

  “We have a problem we need to prepare for on our own,” she said.

 

  “You will have much bigger problems soon, when Flynn learns about the fate of those programs,” Tron replied.

 

  “And then?” Radia asked. “Would he abandon us, because of some programs? That he once created in a blink of an eye and cared not for? Or will he choose us again, the way he has chosen us already? Remember, we are going to be his gift to the world.”

 

  Tron was standing there silently. Radia was right and he had nothing to say anymore. A long, shrill howl came from the distance and filled the room. She pressed her hands against her ears. For the first time now Radia appeared to be distracted. She looked at Tron and she pointed at the window.

 

  “End this,” she commanded. “Kill him.”

 

  “The system monitor was created just for that,” Tron said quietly. “He could have ended this, but you sent him to die. So just listen to the sound.”

 

  He turned around and left the tower; the green light of the colony disappeared behind him in the distance.

 

 

III.

 

  There were words. He went back to the safehouse and told Flynn everything; he was speaking quietly, in a calm manner. When he finished, Tron sat back on his heels and waited. The User would not abandon the ISOs, he knew that – but Flynn would not let such betrayal slip without saying a word. They had to fight; the exiled could be dead and could not be saved anymore, yet it was their duty now to stand up and prove that the sacrifice had not been for nothing.

 

  Confused by the silence the program looked up. Flynn was sitting there with a sorrowful expression on his face. He was devastated, but he did not move – he understood what had happened, but he would not rise. Alarmed, the program leaned ahead.

 

  “You wouldn’t speak up?” he asked. Flynn looked at him. His lips opened and then he did not speak: and the program understood why he did that – because the User knew that he did not owe him, Tron explanations, that he would stay no matter what. And it always had been like that… until now.

 

  “What do you want me to say?” Flynn asked softly. And Tron suddenly knew that this was not going to end well; that this time he would not stand down. But he could not stay silent, for he was too devastated by the loss, too overwhelmed by the guilt.

 

  “You could say that you feel sorry for them,” he said. “That they did not deserve such fate and that Radia was wrong. You could admit that they are not any better than other programs. You could say that you were wrong.”

 

  The User was looking at him for long before replying.

 

  “I do feel sorry for them,” he said. “And yes, she was wrong. I was wrong.”

 

  Tron waited for more to follow, but those words did not come.

 

  “And?” he asked. “And what are we doing now? What are we doing to fix things?”

 

  Flynn did not respond.

 

  “You know that injustice has been done, but you would do nothing?” Tron asked. He pulled back from the hand that reached out to touch his face.

 

  “I told you long time ago,” Flynn said. “I don’t know everything; I couldn’t tell that she would turn against your people.”

 

  “My people,” Tron repeated quietly.

 

  “Remember. I’m just doing what it looks like I’m supposed to be doing.”

 

  “Well, then you are supposed to come and fight. Because even if you don’t know, you are the only one in charge here, the only one with the power.”

 

  Flynn turned his head away as if he was disappointed, as if it became impossible for him to reason with the program. Tron stood up slowly.

 

  “You are not coming?” he asked.

 

  “We are not going,” the User replied. “I’m sorry. I will live to see my family again.”

 

  “Right,” the program said and started to leave.

 

  “You can’t leave,” the User said with sudden surprise in his voice. Tron did not reply, but it was merely his love and old respect that kept him quiet, not his real feelings.

 

  Somehow he did not believe that he would leave, not until he was actually on his bike, with the safehouse behind his back. Tron was not sure what he was doing, he only knew that he could no stay anymore. The User was safe and so he was not bound to stay - but he could not just head back to the city without precaution.

 

  He took refuge at a half-finished house that the User had built before the rebellion. Flynn had just started establishing those places throughout the Outlands; it had been mere practice for him back in those cycles. This house was small, dark and uncomfortable – also close to the city; it was a perfect place for Tron. It had been built on a small energy source, just enough for a single program. There was nothing of the light, beauty and convenience of Flynn’s safehouse here, but it was plenty for Tron, who planned nothing but to find shelter there in between his trips to the city.

 

  He wanted to return to Flynn; the urge was strong, especially when he was lying exhausted in his dark room, listening to the sounds of the city from the distance. Yet he could not go back: he had compromised for too long for the User. Tron turned on his side and curled up in misery. With leaving he had declared that Flynn was wrong, that he, a program knew things better and that idea hurt him more than being alone.

 

  Once connected with one of the larger splinter cells Tron began to collect intelligence about the captured outcasts. It was a difficult task: they were constantly on the run from the agents of the administration. He got engaged in smaller encounters – not only he was doing again what he was supposed to do, but the rebels gained trust at him once more. And they needed all their resources as the Reds were coming at them seemingly endlessly. The enemy was powerful and had been upgraded: programs whispered about a merciless combat application under the name ‘Rinzler’, that had emerged shortly before and was causing great losses to the resistance.

 

  He was leaving the city. The bike was crossing the dark streets in a district frequented by the rebels. Tron was tired; he was going to return to his hiding place for a while. He looked at the dark shadows of the Outlands beyond the buildings. For a moment the program let himself wonder: what was the User doing right now? Was he thinking about the city, about his programs? Was Flynn ever thinking about him?

 

  The blow came out from nowhere. The impulse struck the front of the bike and part of the pavement; the light cycle exploded and fell to pixels. Tron hit the ground hard and rolled on his feet immediately. He was in pain, but he was not injured seriously. And then they were everywhere: the Recognizer from where the shot had come lifted up above the buildings along with a dozen other aircrafts. Lights came to life; the sound of approaching tanks and bikes came from farther away.

 

  Tron turned around and took out his disc with the same motion. He did not see soldiers yet, just the hovering planes and the lights of the rapidly approaching land vehicles. He started to run toward the closest building – then he stopped. The surroundings were changing: the streets and alleys disappeared and solid, dark walls replaced them. The buildings were dark and empty – he could not climb up on those walls. The whole area became a single trap with only one road left open. From that direction hundreds of tiny lights – tanks and troopers– were coming.

 

  The program blinked. He was dead; and the enemy would soon have his disc with all his memories and knowledge, including the location of Flynn’s safehouse and the Bostrum Colony. He looked at his disc. It was almost unbreakable when used in a fight; not that durable when pressure was placed on it. Tron pressed the disc against the ground slanted and then stepped on it. The disc slowly cracked and then broke in two. It fell to pixels and the pieces scattered on the pavement.

 

  Tron fell on his knees. He felt almost physical pain at the loss of his disc.

 

  “It meant freedom,” he whispered. The planes started to descend and the tanks were getting closer now. There was one more thing the program needed to do and he reached out for his fallen data pad quickly. The pad had a large crack on it, but it still worked. Tron placed it on the ground, where it connected to the Grid. He sent out an emergency signal: once done, he brought the baton down at the data pad and destroyed it for good. The signal was not meant to bring help – nobody could save him anymore – but it alerted the rebels that all his information was going to be compromised. He could not kill himself – it was against his coding -, and while he was going to do his best to force them to kill him, he had no control over the situation. All the programs he knew by name or face, had to run and all their hiding places had to be abandoned for good. They were going to alert Flynn, he was certain about that and so the User could escape on time.

 

  Red light was approaching from the direction of the open street. Tron jumped on his feet and activated his baton. The vehicles were not quite there yet and it was a single enemy program entering the square. He was getting ready to fling himself against the Red – then the program walked into the light and Tron stopped.

 

  It was the system monitor. His circuitry was glowing red now, but it was him; he was standing there with his unmistakable, robust stance. He even tilted his head the way he had used to do it back in the Bostrum Colony when Gibson had been taunting him. He had been invaluable for the rebels – and he had not even had a real name. But then Clu had given him one.

 

  “Rinzler,” Tron whispered. As if he was triggered by the word, the system monitor threw himself forward, unlocking his disc. Tron jumped ahead in a hope of surprising the system monitor and provoking a lethal strike. Instead he met a brutal kick that threw him backwards. Tron rolled on the ground; somewhat slower now he got on his feet and picked up the baton he had dropped amidst the fall. He had never fought or even trained against the system monitor and from the kick he could tell that Rinzler was stronger than him. He was the last program Kevin Flynn had created before the exile: all his knowledge and experience had come down in this very system monitor, now updated by Clu.

 

  They were fighting. Tron was giving his best; he had to avoid capture and an obviously superior opponent would not kill him, had he not been a real and immediate danger. But he was already exhausted and without his disc he could barely pose as threat. The system monitor employed his old, brutal fighting style he had been equipped with to neutralize the enemy as quickly as possible.

 

  He threw Tron against the wall. The security program fell on his knees: he saw the system monitor walking at him and he made an attempt to pick up his baton. The Red put his disc back to its port and then he reached out and broke Tron’s right arm with a single yank. Tron cried out. It was over. He extended his left arm for the weapon; Rinzler grabbed him once more and broke his other arm as well.

 

  The tanks and other land vehicles arrived to the square. Soldiers jumped out to the ground and ran there. Without the slightest delay they grabbed the fallen security program and tossed him in one of the troopers. He groaned from the pain when his broken arms were twisted behind his back and then tied together. Similar shackles were secured around his ankles. Tron heard the hurried footsteps as some of the soldiers boarded the vehicle and then the door closed and they started at the city center with great speed.

 

  He could not turn around; just from the side he could see the boots of the soldiers. It was quiet, except for the roar of the vehicle and the occasional instructions. A Recognizer was following the trooper, Tron could hear the unmistakable sound of the aircraft from above. They were not taking chances; they were not risking losing their prisoner.

 

  The trooper went underground and Tron knew that they were onramp under the administration building. Then they stopped and the door opened. Hands reached out and lifted him up from the floor. They were going somewhere, but Tron did not know this part of the building. He expected some formal interrogation before things would get rough, he expected winning some time.

 

  They entered a big room and the program felt them loosening his shackles. His head fell back and he spotted a device in the middle. He knew that; not from this Grid, but from the old one. He had met that application before, after being captured by Sark’s units. The Commander had been determined to find out as many names as he just could from the prisoners and had taken undisguised pleasure in the interrogations.

 

  Tron cried out. For a moment he felt the grip on his legs fading and he kicked a guard in the head. Somebody started twisting his broken arm and Tron stopped fighting. He was yelling angrily while they strapped him to the device. He was mostly angry at himself; what had gone wrong? Where had he made the mistake – how could they find him? There were no answers and he ran out of time anyway.

 

  The device was flat and slightly tilted backwards. The straps held him steadily; his arms and legs were spread out, immobile. He looked around. The guards were leaving; the programs left in the room were dark suited technicians. One of them stepped in front of him. Tron knew that one: one of Clu’s earliest followers, from the times when nobody had suspected ill intention. His name was Jarvis.

 

  “Where is the User, traitor?” the Red asked. Tron looked away. Right. He could take this, he thought – he had not broken for the first time and would not break now either.

 

  “Remember,” Jarvis said. “One simple answer.”

 

  The Red walked away. Without any delay the lights of the room changed, turning into flickering red and yellow and the device came to life. It was humming and began glowing with a red light – and then it started. There was no introduction, just that unbearable pain radiating from the device into his body. Tron screamed. He was in shock; it was the worst pain he ever experienced and expected. Just in moments he was screaming for them to stop and they complied.

 

  One of the technicians touched a dashboard and the device powered down. The flickering lights remained. Jarvis came back to Tron and asked his question again. The security program stared at him numbly. Jarvis turned away, disappointed and the device was switched back right away. Time, Tron thought before the pain overwhelmed him and his screams filled the room once more.

 

  For some time there was nothing else, but the suffering. He could not think of anything, as the world became torment, burning circuits and excruciating, flashing lights. Nothing else existed: not the building outside, not the city, no friends or enemies – it was just the pain. Tron could not stop screaming and soon he felt tears streaming down his face. He did not ask them to stop again: he was not going to speak and an interruption would have just extended the torment. He was going to die, very soon now; the energy impulses from the device were going to kill him. That would be his victory and escape, he thought – but the application was turned off suddenly. The technicians changed something on the dashboard and then it began again. They tuned down the intensity, Tron realized, so that it would match his falling energy level.

 

  “Users,” he whispered. Jarvis came back and asked the question again. Tron threw curses at him until the device reached its new intensity level and all he could do again was to howl from the pain. He tried to focus on something, to hang onto one thought. Old friends, most of them dead long ago, his User, Alan-One, who had not come to the Grid and now they would not have the chance to meet anymore.

 

  “Alan!” he heard that surprised voice.

 

  “Where did you hear that name?” Tron asked, surprised.

 

  “Well, that’s your name, isn’t it?” the conscript asked brashly. There were Reds coming and their presence was the single reason why Tron did not throw himself at the conscript to teach him some manners.

 

  “The name of my User,” he replied. “How did you know?”

 

  He stopped screaming. They were adjusting the device again. For the first time now Tron noticed that the technicians were nervous. Time, he thought again and his world became fire.

 

  A finger traced along his eyebrows. The program opened his eyes. They were alone in a newly coded building in the city. Flynn had brought him there to show him around and then they might have gotten distracted.

 

  Tron reached out, caught Flynn’s hand and kissed it. It was dark: the room was illuminated by the lights that came through the large window. The User rolled on top of him; Tron felt a hand slipping under his nape and they kissed. Another hand slid between his legs and the program smiled, even though he knew it would hurt. It always hurt; and yet he always pretended, always smiled.

 

  “Look at me,” Flynn said. Tron obeyed.

 

  “I love you,” the User said.

 

  Tron opened his eyes. His head was surprisingly clear. He had never felt this weak before and the torture did not seem to get to an end. Suddenly there was understanding. Jarvis and the technicians were nervous, because they did not have much time to complete the task, to break Tron. They could assume that there had been an emergency signal sent out and so Flynn would escape, soon.

 

  This, he realized, every detail in the room had been designed in a way so that it would hurt him the most, so that he would break quicker. Whoever had put that device together, knew him and his limits, knew how much he would hate the flashing lights, how much it would hurt his dignity to go through this suffering in the presence of clerks instead of fellow soldiers. This was Clu’s making, it had come from the system administrator’s desire to defeat Flynn. It was all about time; if Tron could stay silent just for a bit more to ensure the User’s safety, then he could allow himself to talk – then he could allow himself to die.

 

  Back in the dark tower his legs tightened around Flynn’s hips. He felt the User’s hardness moving in and out from his body and the lips that were caressing his neck. He was torn down there – who was he trying to mislead? He was not a User. The thrusts were hard and quick now and Flynn’s hands were holding him down steadily. Tron reached there and took the User’s face between his palms. Flynn looked up, drunk from the pleasure.

 

  “I love you,” the program said.

 

 

*******

 

  “Stop,” he said.

 

  The whirring stopped immediately and Jarvis jumped there. And he spoke: he gave them the coordinates for the safehouse. It was too late: the User was gone long time ago. Jarvis left with hurried steps. They knew that his configuration would not let him lie, that they got the correct information. It was quiet: the red light was still on, but it was not flashing anymore. Tron let his head fall ahead and he lost consciousness.

 

 

IV.

 

  He opened his eyes. He felt tired, but he was not in pain anymore, except for the bearable aching of his broken arms. The lights were different now: strong and white. The heavy footsteps he had heard a moment before, went quiet and Tron felt the direct presence of a program. He lifted his face. The room was full of people: red-circuited guards were standing close to the door and there were a few higher ranked soldiers as well. Right in front of the rack, facing Tron there was Clu standing. The system administrator’s face was unreadable, but his presence could mean only one thing: that they had failed to capture the User – and that he, Tron was going to die now. Tron only wished he could show more dignity and he would not be hanging on a torture rack with tear-streaked face. But there was nothing he could do about that and it did not really make a difference anyway.

 

  “You could have been the greatest,” Clu said. “Had you not chosen a User above your fellow programs.”

 

  “So finish it,” Tron replied in a raspy voice. Clu reached there; and Tron expected a fatal blast of energy and then the merciful nothingness. He felt Clu’s gloved hand touching his face instead. The system administrator’s expression changed slowly.

 

  “You are really so blind,” Clu said and Tron wished he was right; he wished to be blind and not to understand Clu’s face – but it was the same expression he used to see from Flynn when they were alone together. The program wanted to say something, to protest, but the exhaustion overwhelmed him once more. His eyes closed and he fell asleep.

 

  It was quiet in the room when he woke up. He could not tell how much time had passed; he was still strapped to the rack. His head was clear now and he felt his strength returning. Tron looked up and he let out a startled groan. The system monitor was standing in the middle of the otherwise empty room. He was standing there and was staring at the prisoner from behind his dark visor. Rinzler moved slowly and walked to the control panel of the rack. His hand ghosted over the dark surface of the device.

 

  “Wait,” Tron whispered in sudden panic. “Wait…”

 

  The system monitor touched a button. Tron felt the shackles unlocking and he fell on the floor. From his knees Tron looked up at Rinzler, who turned away from the device and walked to him. The system monitor reached there, grabbed Tron’s left hand and dragged him on his feet. Without a moment of delay Rinzler started toward the door, dragging Tron with him. Tron followed him, stumbling; he was not strong enough to fight or slow down the Red. The corridor outside was empty, though sounds of programs walking and talking came from both directions. The system monitor proceeded with large steps. There was only one place the Red could bring him now, Tron realized and he began shaking.

 

  They were crossing the basement of the administration building quickly. After some time Tron noticed that the system monitor was avoiding other programs; he slowed down or sped up at times in order to evade guards and admin programs that were crossing his path. Tron looked at the system monitor’s red circuits. The light was unchanged, but Tron began to suspect that Rinzler was not acting according to his new programming.

 

  The system monitor tossed him into the cubicle of an elevator. The door closed and the elevator ascended. They were above ground level when they exited, in the small hangar of the administration building. The wall ahead was open and Tron could see the lights of the city.

 

  Rinzler brought him to the edge of the platform and there he stopped. Tron looked down. Below there was an unmanned cargo transport at the end of a light beam. The system monitor stood there silently. Tron could not tell if he was fighting against his programming right there; but he knew that they would be spotted momentarily now. He felt Rinzler’s hand on his back, pushing him ahead.

 

  “Come with me,” Tron said. “He will not forgive…”

 

  The system monitor pushed him forcefully and Tron tumbled down from the platform. He fell on the transport ship; his healing right arm cracked again at the impact. Tron turned on his back and looked up at Rinzler. The Red was staring down at him: then the cargo ship started and began to leave the hangar. The system monitor turned around and walked away – at the same time workers entered the hangar and started to prepare the next supply run.

 

  Tron rolled down from the top of the small sailer and hid between the panels. The aircraft left the administration tower undisturbed. The view of the city was stunning from the top and Tron was watching it as he could do nothing else – he could just hope that the ship would reach a safe area before his escape got noticed; he could hope that the system monitor would survive the treason.

 

  The sailer crossed the sky and landed in a workshop in an outer district. Tron jumped down to the ground before the transport docked: there were programs working at the hub. And then he was running as fast as his legs would allow, on walkways, roads and speedwalks, getting as far from the hub as it was possible. He located a hidden spot of a rebel group and from the small storage he acquired a baton. He launched a bike and drove away, away from the city, from the programs, from the lights.

 

 

V.

 

  Sleep. It felt like he was sleeping for cycles and when he woke up the house was dark and quiet around him. He turned around in the dimness and stretched out his limbs. His injuries had healed during the rest. Tron remained motionless; there was nothing for him to run. He slipped back into his sleep.

 

  His senses wakened him: a small aircraft flew close to his hiding place. The safehouse was hard to spot from the outside or from above, but it was an issue that had to be investigated immediately. Tron went outside. The plane landed not far from the house; the green light of the Bostrum Colony went out when the pilot deactivated the aircraft. Tron was watching the approaching ISO warily.

 

  He recognized Gibson when the ISO got closer to the safehouse. Gibson was walking quickly and he was turning his head constantly, looking for the virus. He must have known the exact location of the small hiding place – and if he knew it, then he had been sent by Kevin Flynn.

 

  Tron stepped out to the light. He saw the relief on Gibson’s face when the ISO spotted him. Tron let him inside without saying a word. Gibson was quiet as well: he brought out a new, black identity disc from his bag and offered it to Tron silently. Tron reached out slowly and took the disc.

 

  “Did he send a message?” he asked. Gibson shook his head. He was staring at Tron intently and the security program understood the unspoken question.

 

  “He is alive,” he said. “Or he was when I escaped.”

 

  Gibson nodded.

 

  “I will find him,” he said.

 

  “He will kill you. He helped me getting away: had his life been spared for that, Clu must have fixed his reprogramming. He will not make such mistakes again.”

 

  Gibson turned away and looked at the dark plains outside.

 

  “This is not the kind of perfection we’ve been promised,” he said after long. He did not look at Tron and he left shortly after.

 

  The new identity disc looked exactly like the one he had lost. Tron placed it to its dock. Its content was the exact copy of his old disc, from the backup Flynn had had at the safehouse. Or not, not quite the same: there was a small piece of new information, hidden inside his memories – the location of Flynn’s new residence. The User had put the information on his disc so that Tron could find him if he wanted… if he wanted.

 

  Later Tron would get on a bike and would drive there to see that new secret spot. The hideout would be on the top of a black hill with a great balcony and with no visible entrance. The information planted on his disc would reveal it for Tron that the gate would be down there, under the rocky road. The program would be watching the lights of the retreat from the shadows and in a moment of premonition he would recognize the place as their home for the next thousand cycles. And then he would wait. He would wait, despite of his desire to join Flynn – he would wait because of the unanswered questions. He would set up a small camp under the hill from where he would see the shining rectangle of the balcony.

 

  Tron saw the light going out and soon after a light runner appeared on the road. The vehicle was proceeding with great speed and began its way through the desert in the direction of the Bostrum Colony. After short hesitation the program followed. He always followed; he always said yes to the invitation, always left his old home for the new Grid, for Flynn – he always came home. The journey was long. Tron knew that they were approaching the colony before he saw the green light, for he heard Abraxas’ screams from the distance.

 

  He crossed the borderlands in disguise and drove through the streets of Bostrum with a cape wrapped around him. Flynn went to the administration tower and no program could get admitted there without identifying themselves. Tron collapsed his bike outside of the tower, far from the guards. He started to climb up the wall, staying in the darkness. Outside of Radia’s reception room he stopped. The ISO leaders were inside and Flynn just entered the chamber. Tron sit down next to an ornament, close to the window, from where he could hear the conversation inside.

 

  “What an unexpected pleasure,” Radia said. Her tone was not hostile; she was actually pleasant with the User. There might have been real concern as well: Tron could not see Flynn’s face from his hiding place, but from the User’s voice he could tell that Flynn was not smiling.

 

  “I once created this land so that it could be a home of equals,” Flynn started slowly. “Where everybody would be provided and protected.”

 

  The ISO elders were humming in unison. They were afraid, Tron realized; this was the first time Flynn came here after the exile of the Basics.

 

  “You have established an empire upon great standards for your programs,” Radia agreed.

 

  “No,” the User replied. “Those were standards for all of you. And especially for you, who could thank your very life to the programs you condemned to death.”

 

  There was silence in the room. Tron could not help it, but leaned closer to the window and peeked inside. Flynn was standing in the middle of the room. Radia and the other leaders were occupying their usual spot, closer to the wall. There were a few guards as well, with Quorra amongst them.

 

  “We have been decimated by your programs,” Radia stated. “I sent them back to prevent another fight, to outpace more loss of lives…”

 

  “ISO lives,” Flynn said. “For the price of their lives.”

 

  There came no answer. Tron waited.

 

  “You think that you worth more,” Flynn continued. “And yes, you are special. But listen to my words now. Should a single program lose their life because of you, should it be anything else but direct self-defense, I take it as our agreement was breached. You prove yourself unworthy, and none of you will see the User world ever.”

 

  There was a collective gasp from the ISOs.

 

  “I do understand,” Radia said briefly. Her voice was cold, with unmistakable, scorching anger inside.

 

  “And one more thing,” Flynn said. “There is long road ahead of us and a long wait. If anytime during this time Tron dies in an accident or gets captured once more by the administration between suspicious circumstances, then you can consider the Bostrum Colony as your home for an eternity.”

 

  There was only deep silence in the room and Tron cautiously peeked inside once again. The ISOs were standing there like statues. Radia was unmoved, but her face was burning from the anger for being disciplined in front of her people. Then something else caught Tron’s attention. Flynn was looking directly at Quorra. The younger ISO glanced away and her face lit up with shame. The User turned around and walked out from the room without offering another word.

 

  Nobody followed them on the way back to the safehouse. Tron stayed behind, with his dark bike – but he felt like Flynn knew about his presence, that the whole visit was a message to him too. The light runner ahead disappeared under the hill. Tron stopped. He always came home, he remembered.

 

  Instead of taking the elevator he climbed uphill. It was a steep route; probably he was the only program on the Grid that could take it. At the end he got up to the balcony from where he took a look at the view, at the Outlands and Tron City in the distance, a sight he would see many times during the coming centuries.

 

  He turned. Flynn stood there, inside the white living room. The User walked out to the balcony. Tron remained silent and motionless. Flynn reached out and pulled back the hood of the cape from the program’s face. Tron looked at him and saw him stunned, as always when they met. Then Flynn embraced him and they were standing there like that for long.

 

 

VI.

 

  He woke up with a start.

 

  “Hey, hey,” Sam Flynn said, putting his hands on the program’s shoulders encouragingly. “It’s okay. We’re safe for now. We’re heading east towards the portal.”

 

  He was kneeling next to Tron, with his hand still on the program’s shoulder. Tron recalled his memories.

 

  “They have the disc,” he said.

 

  “Once I get out, I can shut him down,” Sam Flynn said with great confidence. He handed an energy stick to Tron. The program looked at the empty deck of the solar sailer.

 

  “Where is he?” he asked. Sam Flynn nodded at the tuck of the ship. Flynn was sitting there, meditating.

 

  “I think he’s knocking on the sky…” he said.

 

  “And listening to the sound,” Tron finished. He drank the energy. He searched for updates on his disc nervously. Had Flynn removed his disc to fix him? Had he seen his memories? But the disc appeared to be untouched and his memories undisturbed. _They don’t know._

 

  “Yeah,” Sam said. He sat down. Beyond the wings of the solar sailer there was the energy beam and the light of the portal. “Hell of a view.”

 

  “It used to let us know that Flynn was here,” Tron replied. “It became the symbol of something bigger, something better than this world.”

 

  Sam Flynn looked at him and Tron went on to cover his anxiousness.

 

  “There is a saying amongst the ISOs,” he said. “This is how they imagine the sunrise to be.”

 

  “Ah, trust me,” Sam Flynn said. “There is no comparison.”

 

  “What’s it like?”

 

  “The sun? Man… I’ve never had to describe it before. Warm. Radiant. Beautiful.”

 

  Tron turned his face away from the portal and looked at the young User. Just then the program noticed that Sam Flynn was looking at him as he was speaking.

 

_They don’t know._

_ _


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that a new piece of artwork has been added to the previous chapter - do not forget to check it out :)

 

  “When Flynn entered the space…” Castor said, rolling his eyes. “Ah! Everything changed. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. The awe was palpable.”

 

  He was fanning himself with the disc he was holding in his hand. The club was quiet now: the programs that had survived the raid, had escaped. Clu’s sentries had come and left, chasing the Users now. They did not know about Flynn’s disc; all the Black Guards had died in the fight and there was nobody left to inform them about it.

 

  “Was it?” Radia asked icily. She was standing in the middle, surrounded by her guards. This was the first time she set foot on the Grid since the exile. Any other time it would have been a suicide – but this was the endgame. Also, it was Castor’s only condition; he would only handle Flynn’s disc to Radia in person.

 

  Quorra was standing behind Radia, with her staff in her hand. She looked at the disc in Castor’s hand. She advised Sam Flynn to come here and the User walked into the trap, just as Radia had predicted it. Quorra blinked. Her eyes met Gem’s stare. The Siren was sitting on a bar stool and was listening to the conversation between Radia and Castor silently. There was apparent distaste on her face when she looked at Quorra.

 

  “I presume,” Castor continued, “Our understanding is still valid. Control of the city?”

 

  The room was quiet. Radia was standing there in her black gown; her face was unreadable. The ISO guards were waiting with their staffs drawn. Quorra looked at Castor. She remembered negotiating that deal: the User’s disc in exchange for Tron City. The price was unheard – but it did not matter, not for the ISOs, that were going to leave this dark empire behind soon.

 

  “A sizeable request, I know. But… seemingly fitting compensation. Don’t you think? How long have you been waiting for this? Hm? A thousand cycles? Just imagine the secrets it holds. The master key to any and all, the riddles of the grid.”

 

  He was trying to be genial and entertaining; but his comments met silence again. Castor did not know, Quorra reminded herself, he did not know about the plan. He could believe, she assumed, that Radia simply wanted more power, more knowledge of this realm in order to claim it back for her people and that obtaining the Creator’s disc in such treacherous way was just another scheme.

 

  “There’s something else too, isn’t there?” Castor asked suddenly. “I’ve heard the chatter about this private initiative.”

 

  Quorra looked at Radia. The system administrator stood there as a statue. It did not matter, Quorra was thinking, whether he knew about it. It was too late. Radia reached out with her gloved hand and Castor let out a short laugh.

 

  “I realize that our alliance is at times… uneasy…” Castor said. He looked at the ISO warriors and handed the disc to Radia slowly. “But always necessary. You know you need me, right where I am.”

 

  He was smiling, but Quorra could almost feel his uncertainty… his fear.

 

  “Of course, you’re right,” Radia responded. She was turning away from the club owner already. The guards followed suit and they began to leave the tower. Quorra looked back at Castor and Gem once more and saw them standing there baffled, terrified, maybe realizing at last that it was merely their lack of importance that spared them – for now.

 

 

II.

 

  A thousand cycles before Quorra stood in the white reception room in Arjia. Clu and his entourage had just left and Quorra was now waiting for Radia’s orders. Radia was deep in her thoughts.

 

  “Go now,” she said finally. “Find the Creator. He is alive; they must be on their way to the portal. Inform him of what you’ve heard.”

 

  “Of course,” Quorra responded. “Right away.”

 

  “Be vigilant. Clu’s focus is unwavering and lethal. Avoid him at all cost. More than you can imagine, Quorra, our future rests with you.”

 

  Quorra nodded without thinking twice and she ran. She found Flynn and his soldiers preparing to their charge at the portal and delivered the message about Clu’s ominous request. Flynn understood the danger and he sent her back to the city along with Tron. They arrived on time to save Radia, but the attack was imminent and they watched Arjia falling. The ISOs were leaving the Grid in a large caravan, they were running for their lives. Amidst the escape, with their eyes on the black desert Quorra would have missed seeing the dissolving portal, had she not heard Tron’s quiet gasp. She turned and saw the bright column of the portal falling apart, different from the sudden switch they used to see once Flynn exited the Grid safely. She saw the sadness on the security program’s face; then Tron moved and returned to his task to secure the road for the refugees.

 

  Life at the Bostrum Colony was hard; not for the scarce resources, but because they all knew what they had lost. They adjusted their circuitry from white to the more energy efficient green – they changed their Arjian attires to black. Once their streets had been filled with music; now they were listening to Abraxas’ constant screaming. Not many knew the real name of the virus, that Jalen was still alive in such a distorted form. Quorra, who was Radia’s bodyguard and close confidant by that time, could see Radia sitting in her room and listening to that howling – and she could not tell what the system administrator was thinking, because Radia’s face was blank, emotionless. Quorra knew that she was irate, upset about many things. The ISOs asked Flynn to join them at the colony; it was evident that he would live with them, proving once more that they were his real creatures, the chosen ones. But Flynn refused the offer and went into exile alone, except for his faithful security program.

 

  Around that time Radia started to become disdainful toward Basics. Until then she had been neutral and rather welcoming with them, with the Basic refugees that shared the Bostrum Colony with them.

 

  “Look at them,” Radia told Quorra once. “They are only here because of their programmed loyalty. It’s not their choice, not really. It is not their natural courage or their intentions that make them stay, but a part of their coding.”

 

  Quorra nodded. She understood her or she thought she understood, that they, the ISOs were so much more than these simple creatures. It was a lengthy process for her to abandon the old values and opinions they had once cherished and celebrated: that all were equal on the Grid and that there was room for everybody. Had not those ideas been proved wrong with the Purge, she was thinking while she was listening to Radia. No; Radia was right and it was their own survival they had to think of – yet Quorra was grateful for not being chosen to be part of the unit that went to seize the Basics.

 

  “They were on your side,” Tron said. He was standing in the middle of the reception room. He appeared to be calm, yet all the ISO guards were alert and were holding onto their staffs. “Even when it became dangerous. And you sent them into their deaths.”

 

  Radia looked at the security program and she smiled. After the short, sharp argument Tron left. Radia walked to the window and gestured at Quorra. She joined her and looked down at the street. They both knew that Tron was going back to the User now to inform him about the banishment of the Basic refugees – to try and turn Flynn against the ISOs.

 

  “That program,” Radia said, “He is running to Flynn. He was written that way, to never have a genuine thought or idea. He doesn’t know and will never know whether his love for the User is a new line of codes in his programming, which was placed there at one point.”

 

  “Right,” Quorra replied. That was true; Radia was right… but the memory of the banished Basics leaving the city was all too fresh and Quorra was afraid of the word to come.

 

  She was summoned later. When she entered the tower room she found Radia alone. She was wearing her usual black gown and headdress. The system administrator was sitting there; the loud music of Bostrum Colony and the screams of the virus filled the space.

 

  “Sometimes I wish he would stop,” Radia said. She was not looking at Quorra. “Other times I am happy, because he is still there.”

 

  Quorra went there and knelt down before Radia. She had never heard Radia talking like that before.

 

  “Infected or not, lost forever – but he is the only thing I have left of Jalen,” Radia said. Her eyes turned at Quorra. “You know that he would not hunt for Basics; he always stays around the colony.”

 

  “I know,” Quorra whispered.

 

  “It was his choice, to believe the promises. He did it for the peace, but he put his faith in the wicked.”

 

  Quorra was quiet; she was waiting. Radia leaned ahead slowly and put her gloved hand on Quorra’s cheek gently.

 

  “Our people deserved better than this world,” she said. “They were meant for more than to die at the hands of the tyrant. I will deliver them to victory and I will give them the world they were always meant for.”

 

  “So be it,” Quorra replied with the words of the ISO prayer. Radia smiled and she sat back.

 

  “That program, Tron,” she said. “Is out there, trying to incite rebellion, to turn the Creator against us.”

 

  Quorra closed her eyes. She was Radia’s confidant, her favorite, she remembered.

 

  “I want you to track him down when he is in the city and reveal his location to the administration,” Radia said.

 

  “I can’t,” Quorra replied immediately. “He has never done anything against us. All we’ve gotten from him was protection and service.”

 

  “That’s his programming. Not his choice, not something coming from a decision. He is part of this system, just as the codes of the wall or the rain.”

 

  “No,” Quorra said, shaking her head. “I can’t.”

 

  “The Creator will return to us, when he disappears. Once united, we can find a way to win back the city and reopen the portal. It is not about those programs, it is about us. We are going to be his gift to the world.”

 

  Those were Flynn’s words and Quorra knew that. But she was still looking for excuses.

 

  “Should he get captured,” she said, “Clu would see his disc. Tron knows the colony, he knows the Creator’s hiding place. We are all going to die.”

 

  “No,” Radia replied. “He’s a soldier; he won’t let them get his disc. And without that he’s going to die quickly. That is a better fate than what many great ISOs have suffered.”

 

  The conversation was over; Quorra felt that upon the sudden silence. She stood up quietly and left the room.

 

  Quorra left the colony with a small jet; that was the only way for an ISO to travel back to the city. She grounded the plane just outside of the city limits and crossed the border with a bike. She was not able to find Tron; the security program was too quick, too unpredictable when it came to combat and conspiration. While cruising and searching in the city, she harbored doubts about her mission. It was the first time she saw Tron City since the exile and the lights, the mesmerizing skyline of buildings and the sight of programs looking after their tasks reminded her of their old life. It seemed impossible that she came back to take care of such business and Quorra wanted to give up, she wanted to go home – even if home was a dark colony in the middle of the black desert. But it was impossible; there was no way to question Radia’s decision. Even if she, Quorra could convince herself that the task was impossible – she would know the truth. And when the time came and the ISOs faced perdition, an end that could have been prevented by sacrificing this single security program… then Quorra would remember this only occasion when she questioned Radia’s vision and decided to disobey.

 

  After long time she managed to locate a larger splinter cell. It was by sheer luck and partly by her different, ISO logic that she could find them. Quorra found a place nearby from where she could keep an eye on them for an extended period of time; and then she waited. She waited for so long that she almost gave up – and then Tron came. Quorra was not sure if she felt grief of relief when she spotted the security program. She followed him from the distance nevertheless. Tron was on the way back to the Outlands. Quorra stopped her bike next to a public information post. She logged in anonymously and reported the program’s location. Quorra knew that Tron must have been on the list of the most wanted outlaws’, but the promptness of the appearance of Recognizers and tanks made her terrified. She got on her bike and sped up, heading in the opposite direction, with tears burning her eyes.

 

 

III.

 

  The ISO fleet lifted up; there were three smaller fighter jets following Radia’s large aircraft. They were maneuvering carefully to avoid any Recognizers and other planes of the administration in the area. Then they accelerated and their convoy left the city. In the distance the light of the portal was shining invitingly – the ISO ships now headed straight there. After making it certain that they were not being followed, Quorra sat down and looked at the Outlands though a large window.

 

  She did try to live with the consequences of her actions. After the betrayal Quorra returned to the colony, full of sheer terror – she expected battle ships and Recognizers to appear on the sky in any moment. Clu would do anything to acquire the information he wanted; and just how much a program could endure before breaking? As time passed and the enemy did not arrive, she fell into an even deeper mode. So Radia had been right and the program had died for his beliefs – and it had been her, Quorra that had handed out the payment, a miserable death in exchange for unwavering loyalty.

 

  Sensing her doubts, Radia asked Quorra to join her: in the administration tower Radia would open the disc of a long gone Basic and she would show Quorra the codes inside, the simple sequences, the short lines, which were laughably unambitious, sadly artless compared to the majestic, digital DNA of an ISO. And Quorra understood everything that Radia was trying to tell her; that there was really not much for a Basic, nothing that could not be erased with a single motion. She would comprehend – but she would also be thinking, that Basics were still special, because despite of their simplicity they had their own personalities and emotions. A whole universe in each single one; just as the one she had destroyed.

 

  Quorra knew that she had missed something, she knew it immediately when she read the reports about the renegade ISO faction. The district, where the Basic refugees had used to live in Bostrum, was still standing, populated by ISOs who had once shared the place with their Basic friends. After the removal of the Basics they had been offered to rejoin their fellow ISOs, but just a few of them had taken the opportunity. Most of them decided to stay there, somewhat separated from the colony, refusing to take part in the life of Bostrum. Soon they became stigmatized; they did not do anything against the colony, not really… But their silence, their quiet resistance made them suspicious, untrustworthy. One of them, Gibson, kept on crossing the city limits and the ISO guards could not tell what business he had out there or how he was evading Abraxas all the time.

 

  And then Flynn came; the ISO elders gathered and the Creator spoke. His words made it clear that he would not come and live at the colony… and something else too.

 

  “There is long road ahead of us and a long wait,” Flynn said and looked at Quorra. “If anytime during this time Tron dies in an accident or gets captured once more by the administration between suspicious circumstances, then you can consider the Bostrum Colony as your home for an eternity.”

 

  Somehow Quorra managed to keep her composure; but she was shaken to the core. Tron was alive – and Flynn knew about her betrayal. Quorra could not even imagine from where the Creator could have gotten the information; but then, he was a User.

 

  During the following cycles a certain rhythm of life was formed. Flynn built the door between his hiding place and the administration tower in Bostrum. Even Radia did not know the location of Flynn’s hideout: the Creator made it very clear that the information would not be revealed for them and that there would be no efforts to reopen the portal from the inside. The ISOs could not meet him without Tron being present… being alive, and Quorra was scared to meet the security program. But Tron did not give any indication of knowing about Quorra’s involvement in his capture.

 

  Around that time Flynn offered her the privilege to become his apprentice. It happened in Radia’s presence and the Radia accepted the offer for Quorra with one of her rare, bright smiles. It was an amazing gesture and a small victory for the ISOs. And yes, it was Quorra’s desire to study User sciences – but she knew that there was something behind. Had not she committed the worst betrayal against Flynn since the coup? It took her a couple of cycles to understand the will behind the offer. By then she had read a few books from Flynn’s great library and had sat through several sessions with the Creator, listening to his explanations. She was always fearful, she was afraid of failing, about being found out by Tron, about disappointing Radia. Every time when she returned to Bostrum she had to report, to tell Radia every word she had heard, every lecture she had been given.

 

  Quorra was sitting in the living room of the safehouse. She had learned not long before that it was the proper name of the room. She was reading a book, _The Mysterious Island.*_

 

_“The sun rising above a clear horizon, announced a magnificent day, one of those beautiful autumn days which are like the last farewells of the warm season._

_It was now necessary to complete the observations of the evening before by measuring the height of the cliff above the level of the sea.”_

 

  Quorra set the book aside and looked up slowly. Her head was very clear and she looked around as if she was seeing the place for the first time. The revelation hit her already; and Quorra instinctively knew that it was ignited by Flynn’s teachings as she recognized them as the answers to the questions she had put together during her long ISO life.

 

  She remembered that blue horizon.

 

  She knew that fiery ball in the middle of the sky just as if she had seen it with her own eyes.

 

  She could smell the sea, that was so different and yet so similar to the Sea of Simulation, the only sea she was supposed to know.

 

  Those were Kevin Flynn’s memories from the User world. Probably all the ISOs had them, buried deep, she assumed, but in her case the memories were awakened by the interactions with Flynn and by the books. They could have the memories, because they had all come from Flynn, from his digital imprint, the base code. He had been digitized countless times before the coup: his DNA had been read every single time by the computer. The sea just gave it back, in an updated form, in thousands of variations when it had given life to the ISOs.

 

  Quorra looked at Flynn, who was sitting across the room with another book. For the first time now she understood his reluctance to take chances; his desire to live to see his home world. He had started aging already: it was his choice, as Quorra had found out earlier, not something unavoidable. He let it happen, because the changes of his appearance indicated the passing of the time according to the timekeeping of the User world. Those changes did not bother the User, but later on, throughout the centuries sometimes Quorra would catch a glimpse of sadness in his eyes. It would happen at the beginning and at the end of their learning sessions, when Tron would be present. Flynn would glance up; and there it would be, a shadow of regret as he would be looking at the program’s ever unchanging, youthful form. The experience would hit Quorra: the realization that Flynn did not know that Basics had no concept of aging and no senses to detect such changes. Should hundreds of cycles pass in the system, should the User’s hair turn white and his face wrinkled from age, Tron would not be able to tell the difference. She would never dare to tell this to Flynn nor would she share the information with Radia.

 

  Quorra returned to the colony. She felt strangely light-headed with her newfound knowledge. Soon there was another realization: her fear was gone. Now she knew all the people, whose actions would determine the fate of the system. She saw Radia, once graceful and benevolent, now spoiled by the loss and the suffering. She saw Clu, rigid, unable to deviate from his old directions, even if enforcing those rules meant the end of all life on the Grid. And she saw Kevin Flynn, who had given up the fight, the struggle for only one goal: survival. She had been chosen as an apprentice, for she was the connection, the way to convince Radia; because if they could not work together, they were all going to die.

 

  She understood everything; but no awakening could erase the guilt. It was even harder to face it now – and that secret was simply not something she wanted to live with. The next time when she returned from the safehouse, she followed Tron to the street. After closing the connection between Flynn’s hideout and the administration tower in Bostrum, the security program always left on a bike; that way the door was sealed. Quorra walked next to him silently. Tron did not seem to mind her presence. The busy streets were left behind: Tron was about to launch his bike. He must have sensed that Quorra had something to say, for he stopped and looked at her expectantly. There were no ISOs around; the sound of music filled the space and the distant, unending screaming of the virus.

 

  “I gave you away,” she said. “I followed you in the city and I sent them after you.”

 

  Tron was looking at her quietly. His expression did not change and his stance was casual, relaxed – but Quorra had seen him in a fight before and she knew that had he attacked, she could not even see the disc lighting up before she would be derezzed. But the strike did not come; after a long moment Tron turned away and held out his baton to activate his bike.

 

  “Wait!” Quorra yelled. This was the worst; to be ignored, as if she did not even deserve a word, another moment of his time – as if she was so low that he would not even soil his hands with wiping her out. “Let me make this right.”

 

  Tron stopped. He appeared to be considering the plea for long; then he turned to Quorra.

 

  “The time may come,” he said slowly, “that I ask for one thing. It will be your decision to comply or not. That will be your chance to make it right.”

 

  Quorra nodded. And then she would wait; she would wait for centuries for that request to come. She would live her life, work and grow – and she would wait.

 

  An explosion shook the aircraft. Quorra jumped on her feet and ran to the cockpit. Three red jets were chasing the ISO fleet; Quorra arrived there just in time to see one of the Bostrumite fighter jets exploding and falling to pieces. The red jets were small, not accompanied by Recognizers or larger aircrafts. If they could take them out quickly, Quorra was thinking, they could still make it to the portal.

 

  “Take the turret,” the pilot yelled anxiously. Quorra was running and saw the fearful faces of the other passengers as she was making her way to one of the turrets in the back. They were all afraid, scared for their lives and about the idea that they could fail this close to the victory. She jumped in the seat, which slid back and swung around; the cabin powered up and through the window Quorra could see another ISO guard arriving to the second turret.

 

  The Reds were chasing them and were firing rounds steadily; the ISO jet was shaking from the continuous impacts and smaller explosions. One of the smaller green planes maneuvered into the line of fire in an attempt to shield the large Bostrumite aircraft from the attack and it got hit by several missiles immediately. It exploded and fell to pixels, leaving only one small ISO jet and Radia’s ship facing the three Reds.

 

  Quorra began firing: the counterattack got the enemy unprepared, for she managed to hit one of the Reds almost instantly. She could hear the victorious cheer from behind. Suddenly all four light ribbons of the large Bostrumite plane lit up; the remaining two Red jets could barely avert to avoid being destroyed.

 

  A long chase started. They were shooting at one another viciously, but the ISOs could not dispatch the Red jets. Several missiles hit the large green ship; there were many smaller explosions and they were slowing down. They began to deviate from their planned route; the light of the portal were not ahead of them anymore. For now there were no other Reds coming, but Quorra knew that it was only the matter of time. They had to get rid of the two enemy ships or they were going to be forced to land or would simply miss the portal.

 

  A flash of light blinded her and another, powerful blast shook the ship. For a moment Quorra thought the ship itself was exploding; but it was the other turret cabin that was blown off along with the ISO fighter occupying it. As a small consolation, one of the Reds got entangled in the green light ribbons right after, leaving only one of Clu’s sentries. That one made a sudden turn and got behind the last small ISO jet. Quorra watched helplessly as the green jet got destroyed; the Red resumed the chase right after.

 

  She was firing with the cannon, but the Red was quick and somehow appeared to foresee her moves – he kept on eluding the shots, while he delivered more and more missiles. Then he stopped. Quorra held onto it as well; the Red jet flew closer and she was hoping to get a better shot. Before she could have pushed the button, she recognized the enemy program. It was Rinzler. Quorra’s hand was on the stick, but she could not fire. How could she; should she kill the system monitor for the second time? She was unable to move. While it was impossible to guess what Rinzler was doing, Quorra believed he had halted fire to allow the ISOs to recognize him before delivering the final blow. The distance between the two jets began growing as Rinzler was getting ready.

 

  A quick series of energy missiles hit Rinzler’s jet. The Red turned with unexpected speed to see the attacker and Quorra leaned closer to the window as well. There was a tiny, green plane behind… Gibson! He must have followed the fleet from Bostrum and then from the End of Line Club. The round of shots he had fired at the system monitor had not meant to kill the Red; the missiles had only damaged the wing of the one-man jet. Rinzler was turning around: he could not give up his main target, the large ISO ship, but he would not let another enemy plane following him either. Gibson’s jet flung upwards suddenly, circling around the Red and for a long moment Quorra saw them staring at one another – for the first time in centuries. After finishing the maneuver Gibson returned to his position behind Rinzler’s plane. Was he ready to fire again, had the system monitor resumed the attack? Quorra pressed her hands against the window. Rinzler was shaking his head with apparent confusion; his plane was losing speed. Then the Red gave up the chase: his jet was growing smaller in the darkness and then disappeared in the distance, along with Gibson’s plane.

 

  Quorra let out a long sigh. She walked through the cheerful ISOs, back to the cockpit. During the pursuit she could not think of the portal nor had she felt how long the chase had last. Now Quorra could see the light of the portal right ahead of us and the ship began the landing.

 

 

IV.

 

  Radia walked down the ramp with Flynn’s disc in her hand. Quorra and the other ISO guards surrounded her immediately. The system administrator began toward the stairs that led to the portal and they went upstairs in a hurry. The light of the portal was too powerful; from the board of the ship they could not see earlier whether the place was empty or was guarded by Clu’s sentries. The landing spot was empty, except for the Bostrumite ship, but Quorra had a feeling that they might see something unexpected up there.

 

  Even prepared for a surprise, she was taken aback by the sight upstairs. They were all there; the Creator, Sam Flynn, Clu and Tron. There were no sentries and no sign of aircrafts; no hint to how they had gotten there. There had been a fight; Clu and Sam Flynn had just stopped wrestling upon the arrival of the ISO ship. Kevin Flynn and Tron were behind them; the security program was pushing the User backwards, at the shining column of the portal. Flynn seemed to be distracted by the scene – or by whatever fight or conversation had taken place before that.

 

  Radia walked toward them silently and the ISO warriors followed suit. The Users and Clu both turned at them – and stopped immediately at the sight of Radia, holding Flynn’s disc. The Creator and Sam Flynn both looked at Clu, as if they just realized that Clu did not have the disc, that he was not behind the events in the club. Clu seemed to be stunned too, at the sight of his archenemy. He turned away from Sam Flynn and took a few steps at the ISOs. Tron, as if he was just waiting for the interruption, quickly tapped the panel on the bridge. It took Quorra a long moment to notice that a gap opened on the bridge and that the hole was growing, separating the Users and Tron from the rest of them.

 

  Radia cried out. With a nod she sent an ISO warrior running to the panel on their side to re-establish the integrity of the bridge. On the other side Sam Flynn looked down at the retracting ramp and then he hurried back to his father. Flynn was arguing with Tron, gesturing at the ISOs; and Quorra knew that he was trying to remind the security program of the old promise – that he would not want to leave without Radia. The ISO, who was sent to the panel, cried out in frustration: the panel had been disabled on their side.

 

  Clu was standing on the edge of the gap. He just realized that he had been tricked and that they were not going to be able to reconnect the bridge. The opening was already too large for a jump, but judging his stance Quorra knew that Clu was going to try anyway. Radia nodded at the ISOs; they were all equipped with light ropes and there was the ship as well – there was no way that the Users could reach the portal and exit without the ISOs getting them.

 

  On the other side Sam was now dragging Flynn toward the portal; they were still arguing. Tron was pushing them, while his eyes were on the tumult on the other end. He had already crossed the line beyond which Basics were forbidden to go: he was already too close to the light of the portal. Quorra could see the energy waves touching him; while the Users were unaffected by those sequences and did not even notice it, the program was overheating. Tron glanced back once more and his eyes met hers. Quorra nodded.

 

  Quorra threw down her staff and she stepped to Radia. She grabbed Flynn’s disc. Radia looked at her and Quorra saw the emotions reflecting on her face: the surprise, the shock and then the outrage. Radia screamed and her voice was full of anger, full of betrayal. It was a horrible sound: all the ISOs looked there, even Clu turned at them, away from the gap on the bridge.

 

  They were wrestling desperately. Quorra knew that she had not won enough time: Radia was already regaining her composure. In just a moment she would yell at the other ISOs to apprehend Quorra and their attention would be back on the Users. Across the bridge Sam Flynn was pulling his father desperately into the light. Seeing the struggle between the ISOs the Creator was now pushing against Tron. The security program’s posture suddenly changed and Tron began to shove the User to the portal. Genuine surprise appeared on Flynn’s face; this must have been the first time for him to fight with Tron and the User seemed to be stunned by the sheer strength of the program. Just in a few more moments the Users were standing in the very core of the light. Tron’s left arm was in the light too as he was holding Flynn in place so that he could not leave the portal. The security program looked back above his shoulder, straight at Quorra. She could not hear him from the distance, but she saw his lips moving.

 

  “Now!”

 

  Quorra saw both Users, Clu and Radia looking at Tron at the same time. In that instant – too late – they all understood who had sent the page, who had tried to lure the User Alan-One on the Grid in an attempt to save Flynn’s life. In that endless moment Quorra remembered one of their sessions with the Creator, the only time they had talked about Tron.

 

  “He’s a security program,” Flynn said, quoting Tron’s original User. “He was created to monitor all contacts between our system and other systems. He finds anything going on that’s not scheduled, he shuts it down. He runs independently.”

 

  Seeing the complete shock on Kevin Flynn’s face now Quorra could imagine that he just remembered his own words as well. It must have been the time that had passed, which had shaded Flynn’s otherwise clear perception – that he had not realized that behind Tron’s loyalty it had been always the very same, simple programming. Tron had been always running independently, even from Flynn himself; and he was shutting down the system which had gone out of control, right here, right now.

 

  With sudden panic Quorra realized that she would not make it to the portal. The ISOs were closing the circle around them and Radia was screaming at her angrily. She could not break out or she would be caught before the leap. Quorra felt sadness – but then, the Users were going to live! That was more than they could hope for just one cycle earlier.

 

  A long, shrill howl started. The ISOs looked around, confused. They were surrounded by the sea and there was no way for Abraxas to travel here, yet it was him, the echo of his scream descending on them. Quorra felt Radia’s grasp lightening and she looked at the system administrator. And for a moment Quorra saw the young Radia, their wise leader, carefree and loving before the war. Radia turned her face at the sea as if she was trying to catch a glimpse of Abraxas.

 

  And Quorra ran. She let go of the disc: everybody stepped back surprisedly as they had all believed that she had been trying to acquire the disc for herself. Quorra broke through the circle of ISOs with the light rope in her hand already. She shot the rope out and it crossed the gap on the bridge. It landed on the other end and locked with the code of the bridge. Sensing her plan Clu jumped ahead in an attempt to catch her and get the rope for himself, but Quorra sidestepped him and jumped – into the abyss, merely hoping that the rope had connected strongly enough; that she would survive the stunt.

 

  She landed on her feet on the other end of the platform. There was no time for her to look back; the energy sequences of the portal were strong and very fast now. Flynn had given up fighting with Tron; he must have realized that his struggle was forcing the program to stand in the light of the portal, which was disintegrating his body quickly. Sam Flynn was standing behind his father, his arms locked around Flynn. Quorra was running straight at them. Just as she got there and the hot energy waves enclosed her body, Flynn pushed Tron away with both hands in a final attempt to save the program’s life. Tron took a few wobbly steps backwards. Whatever remained of his left arm, fell to pixels now. The program was dazed. Quorra saw the horror on the Users’ faces as they realized that they were going to leave Tron behind on this bridge with his biggest enemies. Then Tron took one more step back; his eyes closed and he lost his balance on the edge of the platform. He fell back and disappeared in the darkness in the blink of an eye.

 

  She heard somebody screaming; but it sounded strange and it took Quorra a moment to figure that she was screaming. The shriek echoed in the dark room. The transmission ended and they were standing in a closed space. Stale, dusty air filled her lungs for the first time in her life. Quorra gasped. Next to her a grief-stricken Kevin Flynn was standing. Sam was the first to waken and he ran to the computer to shut it down; to try to save whatever was left to save.

 

  Quorra looked around and spotted the laser. The time came; and this was her chance to make things right. The Users paid no heed to her yet. She stepped ahead, uncertain in her new body, in this different sort of space. She grabbed a tool from the table and walked to the laser.

 

“It will be your decision to comply or not,” Tron had told her a thousand cycles before. “That will be your chance to make it right.”

 

  She raised the tool. And she brought it down with all her strength, breaking the machine to pieces, hitting it wherever the laser appeared to be the most vulnerable and yanking at the wires with her hand. Just when the damage seemed to be irreversible, did Quorra glance up, panting. Her eyes met the dumbfounded stare of the Users, the Users, that did not even try to intercept, that did not even yell at her – the Users, that finally recognized that there had been something important detail along the road, something, that they had irrevocably missed.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to be concluded - final chapter is coming
> 
> * Jules Verne: The Mysterious Island


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Can a digital being manifest free will? Ah, the age-old question that keeps comp-sci majors up all night. Short answer: no. Long answer: it depends on how the entity in question was created. Was she programmed? If so, she is beholden to the will of the programmer. But, what if she sprang from some intermediate source? As is she were a spontaneous life form? Sorry – didn’t mean to give you comp-sci majors another reason to lose sleep. 
> 
> Truth be told, it’s a bit frightening when your work takes on a life of its own. Case in point: Programs. They seem to act with intelligence, and recursively. Their intellect is growing at an accelerating rate. They’re starting to do things outside of their programming. Maybe these aren’t actual programs, per se. I’ve got to study these, let’s call them “beings”, for right now. Put a hold on that “program” thing because these are different cats. They could be some form of super-intelligence… I know my fantastical ramblings are the stuff of sci-fi hooey, but they feel like more. They feel achievable. They feel dangerous.”
> 
> Kevin Flynn: The Digital Frontier – Mapping the Other Universe

I.

 

  “There it is,” Flynn said. The portal was ahead of them, part of a large structure, at the end of a runway. The solar sailer was approaching rapidly; while its route crossed the platform, it was not meant to actually stop there. Sam looked up. His father had made the modifications already and the sailer now began to slow down. Tron was watching the structure curiously, looking for the signs of the enemy. The place appeared to be abandoned for now. The aircraft docked at the end of the runway and the three of them walked down the ramp.

 

  From the runway a long staircase led to the portal. They rushed upstairs, where another slim bridge ran straight to the bright column of light.. The energy of the portal was so powerful that it took Sam a few seconds to actually notice Clu, who was standing there, between them and their way out from the system. He seemed to be alone, with no guards around him. On Flynn’s other side Tron stepped forward immediately. Sam looked at him; he was not certain if the security program was in the condition to fight or if he stood the slightest chance against the system administrator. Kevin Flynn reached out and pulled the program back.

 

  “This is mine,” he said, with his eyes on Clu. Sam saw Tron standing down as if the program was waiting for the scene to unfold. Kevin Flynn walked ahead toward Clu. Sam began to follow him unwittingly, then he felt Tron’s hand on his wrist. They were hoping to convince Clu, Sam realized, to reach the portal without fight. He stopped.

 

  “I had a feeling you’d be here,” Clu said. He laughed. “The cycles haven’t been kind, have they?”

 

  “No… You don’t look so bad,” Flynn replied cheerfully. Clu’s expression went cold; the system administrator was staring at Flynn belligerently.

 

  “I did everything!” he exclaimed. “Everything you ever asked.”

 

  “I know you did,” Flynn replied. He stopped in the middle of the bridge.

 

  “I executed the plan!” Clu insisted.

 

  “As you saw it,” Flynn confirmed. Clu began walking.

 

  “You…,” Clu said, gesturing wildly and Sam could tell that he had been waiting for his conversation for long. “You promised that we would change the world… together! You broke your promise.”

 

  “I know. I understand that now,” Flynn replied.

 

  “I took the system to its maximum potential,” Clu said. That was when they met in the middle, facing each other at once. “I created a perfect system!”

 

  “The thing about perfection, is that it’s unknowable. It’s impossible, but it’s also right in front of us, all the time. You wouldn’t know that, because I didn’t when I created you. I’m sorry, Clu. I’m sorry.”

 

  Flynn extended his arms at Clu. The system administrator was glaring at him, his face was still stern, furious. He stepped ahead slowly, with his arms raised as if he were to give in – but the action ended with Clu kicking Flynn viciously. The kick sent Flynn sliding backwards on the bridge. Sam cried out and threw himself at Clu. He punched the system administrator repeatedly, just to see the same grin on Clu’s face – then Sam felt blow after blow and they got engaged in a scuffle.

 

  The loud roar of an approaching ship filled the space and Sam glanced up in dread. Had it been Clu’s entourage, they would be captured and lost forever. But it was an aircraft of different design, illuminated by the green light of Bostrum. Clu was staring at the ship as well. Taking advantage of the moment of distraction, Tron moved and pulled Flynn along with him. They managed to cross the bridge behind Clu as the ISO ship turned around in mid-air and began to descend. A moment later the system administrator realized that he had been tricked and he threw himself after Flynn once more.

 

  Fight, Radia with Flynn’s disc, Clu’s desperate stance on the other end on the disconnected bridge and Quorra’s jump – everything happened very quickly and yet very slowly. It was rushed, terrifying, for Sam knew that it was their only choice to escape or they were going to die down here. And it slowed down strangely when they were standing in the light of the portal, in the moment of understanding. On the other end of the bridge Clu was about the jump, and the Bostrumites were fighting with each other. Flynn was trying to move, to step out from the light, but Sam was holding him back from behind and Tron was pushing against him. Then the security program looked back above his shoulder and cried out.

 

  “Now!”

 

  And Quorra was running, leaving the rest of the ISOs and Clu dumbfounded. Everything was happening according to a plan, Sam realized, and his eyes turned at Tron. The program was shaking violently; the energy of the portal, which felt warm and harmless for Sam, was slowly tearing him to pixels.

 

  “Dad!” Sam yelled. Kevin Flynn looked at Tron and he stopped fighting. He pushed the program away, farther from the portal. Quorra landed on their side of the bridge hard and was running straight at them. They could have prevented her from entering the portal and from the increasing intensity of the light Sam knew that she could not make a second attempt before the transmission – but her, Quorra’s flight was part of the plan, the plan they knew nothing about, the plan which seemed to be about nothing else, but their successful escape.

 

  He looked at Tron. The program was staggering backwards; his left arm was missing. Tron closed his eyes as if he could not watch the devastating, white light anymore and he fell from the platform. Quorra was screaming and her screams echoed in the small, hidden office under the Arcade. The transmission ended, but instead of celebrating Sam rushed to the computer to shut it down, to interfere somehow. His father was standing next to him, stunned. After a moment he joined Sam; he was typing quickly. It took time for the system to save and to shut down: too much time, and now Sam was panicking. What if Clu or an ISO entered the portal, what if they manifested in the office as a human beings just like it had happened to Quorra? All of the programs they had left at the portal were hostile – what were they going to do with even one of them? With the whole ISO task-force?

 

  None of them paid attention to Quorra, not until they heard the screech of metal. Sam and Flynn turned and they saw her destroying the Shiva laser. Sam could not move, as he was stunned by relief and grief at the same time; delight over the fact that no harm was going to come through the portal anymore – and sadness, for he was not going to see the secret empire on the other side of that machine with his own eyes ever again.

 

 

II.

 

  They would argue. There would be questions after questions and then resentment upon the answers – but this would be later, once they would be out from the Arcade and safe at the lake house. The house would be dark and abandoned at the time of their arrival, later that night. Inside it would be cold and the furniture would be covered with white sheets; just after removing the sheets would Kevin Flynn recognize that their old home had been kept and mostly preserved the way it had been during their years spent here.

 

  Nobody knew about his return; the cab that had picked them up at the closed Arcade, was gone by now. There would be phone calls and people would come, but that would happen later, once they figured, what had happened in the last few minutes they had spent on the Grid… likely during the last minutes any User had spent there and that realization made Flynn’s heart skip a beat once more. He knew that they were alive, that all programs had survived the last encounter – even Tron, whose signal Flynn had nervously searched for and had located it deep in the black sea. They left the computer shut down and the laser the way it had been after Quorra’s rampage. The damage to the device seemed to be dire, but it was hard to make predictions about it without a more thorough inspection, which they had had no time for. After breaking the laser, Quorra threw down the wrench she had used for the destruction. She looked at Flynn and Sam with a saddened face, but with great composure.

 

  Kevin Flynn did not expect to learn that the lake house still belonged to him, to Sam, yet that place was the answer to his question as to where to go. They had to start calling people, he had to make calls, to attorneys, friends… But it was still the middle of the night and the people that had waited for thirty years, could wait until the morning. What could not wait was for him to make sure that Sam and Quorra were fine and to find out – why?

 

  They were alright; Sam appeared in the office in a jacket, jeans and boots, an attire he must have worn before being digitized. Quorra on the other hand, who had had no imprint in the real world, had come through in her program gear. Without concept of materials in the system, her once fitting Grid suit came out as some cheap, plastic dress, with burnt out circuits. None of them had been harmed during the last encounter at the portal and after destroying the laser Quorra became quiet and expectant as if she was waiting for their decision about her, as if she would not have been surprised to be kicked out to the street and left behind abandoned.

 

  “Why?” he asked. They were sitting in the living room; Sam had turned the lights and the heater on and it was another sharp sting in the heart for Flynn, to see the house not just preserved, but actually ready for people to move in. That made no sense: but he did not say anything and Sam offered no comment either.

 

  Quorra looked at him and she spoke, about the ISOs, about Bostrum, about Radia; about their anger and frustration which had just grown throughout the centuries. She spoke about Radia’s promise to her people to deliver them to the User world, so the Grid would be a cage no more for the ISOs; that the real world would be available for all of them. It was nothing that Kevin Flynn had not known before, but something he had never really understood; that Radia had meant each single word and she had been ready to achieve that goal at all cost. She had ordered Quorra to send Sam to Zuse, into a trap set for him, knowing well that the conspiracy could have led to the young User’s death. Despite of the interruption Zuse had managed to fulfill his part of the deal and he had obtained Kevin Flynn’s disc.

 

 _Why didn’t you tell me_ , Kevin Flynn wanted to ask, but the question would have been insincere. He had known all of that, he had heard it from Radia, from Quorra, from Tron… He had just never realized that these were not programs, not really; the ISOs had all the anger, all the vengefulness, all the impatience of humans. So when the time came, when the plan was made for Kevin Flynn’s escape from the Grid, part of the idea became to seal the door between the two worlds, to ensure that no enemy would follow the User into the real world.

 

  “He told you to destroy the laser,” Flynn said. “It was Tron all along.”

 

  No, he was thinking despite of Quorra’s nod; it was impossible. A Basic could not come up with a grand scheme that would mislead the ISO elders, Clu and Kevin Flynn as well. Not because Basics were not intelligent – they were -, but they were much simpler, designed to fulfill one task, to do one job. Kevin Flynn was convinced that it had been Clu, who had paged Alan Bradley, because there was no other option; only him, Flynn and the system administrator had had the necessary codes to initiate communication using an I/O Tower. And if it was not him, then it must have been Clu…

 

  “Oh,” Flynn said loudly. Quorra and Sam looked at him curiously, but he did not continue. His mind was racing and he remembered, one occasion at the safehouse, not long before Sam’s arrival to the Grid. Flynn was reading a book in the living room; he should have been resting, but he had troubles with sleeping lately. He looked up from the book and glanced at the direction of his bedroom. Even when being around, Tron could be completely unnoticeable and the mere fact that he was making noises meant that the program wanted something. Flynn put down the book and he walked there. He stopped at the door and he started laughing immediately. Tron was lying on his back on the bed upside down, with his head tilted backwards, looking at the User.

 

  “What are you doing?” Flynn asked, still laughing. Of course he knew what the program was doing; Tron had already removed his own disc and weapons so that they would not be in the way later. Tron knelt up and extended his arms at Flynn. He walked there and took the program in his arms. Tron was grinning. He wrapped his legs around the User’s waist and Flynn laid him down on the bed gently. He touched the program’s cheerful face. Basics, of course, never changed – not really. That happy excitement on Tron’s face was the same expression he had seen from the program when he had held him in his arms for the first time. Flynn’s hand slid down and the program’s attire dissolved upon his touch; Tron’s legs became tighter around his waist, demanding.

 

  Later Flynn slept, sated, calm; he was resting finally. Everything was ordinary when he woke up; Tron was not around, but again, that was not unusual.

 

 _He stole the codes_ , Flynn thought. That was not against the program’s directive, especially if Tron had believed that the action had served the cause. And he had had no obligation to talk about it, not until he had been asked – which had never happened. Kevin Flynn sighed. _Why the laser_ , he wanted to ask, but he knew the answer already. With the laser gone after their successful escape, no ISOs could follow them; additionally, he, Kevin Flynn could not go back and bring out anybody while still affected by his long stay on the Grid, without considering the grave danger and possible implications. Should he be able to repair the laser, the work and the following tests would last for months; that was more than enough time for him to calm down, get adjusted to his life in the User world… and consider it twice if he ever wanted to return to the Grid or bring out anything from there. And Quorra; she had been a willing participant, with an obvious desire to see this part of the world since the longest time – and she had been part of the plan, an ISO delivered to the User world, to grant Flynn’s wish in case the laser was beyond recovery.

 

  Suddenly he felt overwhelmed by the revelations. This was the time he had been waiting for so long, the opportunity to make things right. There was nowhere to rush anymore, as the computer was shut down and the programs were sleeping, but once established a life in the User world, he was going to fix things and restore life in the system. Kevin Flynn glanced up when Quorra stood up and walked to the window slowly. He was deep in his thoughts and for that he had not noticed the growing light in the room. The night was about to end and outside the glow of the rising sun was getting stronger. He stood up and went to the window and he saw Sam stepping closer as well. They were standing there silently as the sun rose above the hills and the bright light filled the air.

 

 

III.

 

  Radia was sitting in her room alone. It was quiet. She and her entourage had been back to Bostrum when the system had restarted; the User must have removed them from the portal, where the shut down had reached them. The ISOs had been looking at each other, confused. Radia had started first; she had turned away and entered the tower. There might have been confusion, questions, but one thing she had known well: that the User and their chance to make it to the other world, was gone.

 

  Time passed. She was sitting without a stir. It felt… bitter. Losing felt bitter, especially knowing how close she had gotten – and knowing that her failure meant no second chance, not even under another leader. Another leader… Radia was convinced that the Elders were already deliberating or had even chosen the new ruler. She nodded, just for herself, in her dark room. They would not harm her, she was thinking: they would probably let her continue living in her tower.

 

  She removed her headdress and placed it next to her. The silence… It was quiet since the restart. The noises of the colony and the music were there, but the screaming of the virus was gone. She closed her eyes. Abraxas was gone, so was the traitor. She should have known that Quorra had been playing a double game. But Quorra had been away at the User’s residence for too long, too often – they had had all the time to make their own plans. Radia’s hands went into fist, then she relaxed. There was nothing she could do about that anymore. The next step would be to see how the life of the ISOs would continue, to find out whether there would be any contact with Users and to investigate the changes, if any in Tron City. But those tasks were waiting for the new ISO leader; Radia was finished. Let them send a delegation to the city, let them negotiate the terms of the coming peace, she was thinking, she did not care anymore. She only cared about the silence.

 

  When she had first noticed the quietness, she had screamed. Radia had been certain that the User had deleted Abraxas. ISOs were much harder to code than Basics and the virus had been corrupted a thousand of cycles ago. There was no way back for him anymore, Radia assumed; Flynn must have erased Abraxas, giving him a merciful death after all.

 

  Sometimes the door opened and a female Bostrumite came in with a tray. The servant would put down the tray with the large can of energy, she would bow and leave. Radia never asked anything, did not enquire about the news. She was listening to the sound of the city. She was listening.

 

  When it finally happened, it started with a loud roar from the streets. It was the sound of great surprise. Radia opened her eyes at the noise, but she did not move. She could not be wrong about this one, could not be misled – or the empty, dry shell of pure hate, what she had become during the centuries, would crack and shatter, and she would disappear, leaving nothing behind. Radia waited. It was coming; she could sense the approaching, heavy footsteps through the building. She stood up when it arrived to the floor where her suite was located. Radia could not see it through the wall, but she knew that it was there. It… From the outside the sound of laughter and wild applause came; the crowd began to celebrate the return of hope and the start of a new era. Radia walked to the door and she pressed her hands against it. Any moment now, she thought, he would knock, and she would recognize the sound, that hand on the other side of the door. She leant her forehead against the door, knowing that on the other end Jalen mimicked her action, without actually seeing her, in this final moment of delay before the unexpected reunion. Radia’s hand slipped on the knob and she opened the door.

 

 

IV.

 

  The transmission ended with a thunder-like sound. They were left behind in the sudden quietness, in a middle of wild gestures, discs raised. The Users’ departure left all of them dumbfounded and Clu saw the ISOs staggering, looking at their leader, perplexed. He, Clu was standing on the edge of the disconnected bridge. On the other side, where the Users had been mere moments ago, it was empty; just the wind was blowing and blasting the structure. The Bostrumites began to yell wildly. They were preparing their light ropes; they were getting ready to approach the still open portal. Clu looked down at the black abyss where Tron had disappeared. He was at absolute loss, seeing the people whose actions had shaped his existence since the beginning, being gone for good. He should have been preparing now: he had no chances against the ISO task force, yet he should have fought, he should have… Clu was watching the dark waves down there. Back in the cycles he had not really understood why Flynn had named the city after a security program, after somebody that had been created to serve and not to rule – but it became clear for him now, when it did not matter anymore, when all was about to end. _To reign is to serve._

 

  Shutdown.

 

  Erase.

 

  Rewind.

 

  Clu woke up standing in the office in the administration tower. Startled, he turned around, but he was alone in the room. Through the large windows he saw the city; it appeared to be unchanged. Clu looked down. His circuitry was glowing with an intense, blue light against his combat suit. He stopped and began to run a self diagnostic test. A moment later Clu knew what had happened: he had received an update from his User. He let out a surprised grunt. As he could tell, he had all his memories, starting from his creation, unaltered. Clu was still Kevin Flynn’s digital copy, with his User’s memories, talent and desires. But, contrary to his first version, which had been released to create the perfect system, and had not been programmed to divert, his updated self had somewhat changed directives. He was still the system administrator, yet he was no longer bound to pursue perfection. Now he was supposed to work for the system and _all_ of its inhabitants, regardless of their origins – as long as one did not pose as threat to others, they were allowed to exist within the Grid. Clu was not forced to like anybody – he had simply received an update, and was not brainwashed -, and he still had his own likes and dislikes. He still regarded the ISOs with distaste; but he had no urge anymore to erase them from the system. The function of learning had been added to his programming; contrary to his old self, from now on Clu was capable to adjust and change.

 

  He was standing there silently. If anything, he had expected death from the User, and not… Was this forgiveness? Much to his surprise, he found the answer to his question in the update. Whatever Kevin Flynn had told him on the bridge, was the truth and the User did not blame Clu for his actions. That was why he was given another chance now, to do things another way. Was the other way the right way? Clu could not tell yet, but this was the first time since centuries, when he did not feel angry and upset. With removing the pressure to create perfection, Flynn had taken away the source of neverending frustration and gave Clu… freedom.

 

  He was still processing. Looking back at the past Clu saw how things could have been. And it was sad: so many lives, so many resources lost because of the lack of understanding… his lack of understanding. This was another chance now, for all of them. From the update Clu also learnt that the portal had been damaged and there would be no direct interaction with Users for an undetermined length of time. And there was one more piece of information; that Tron had survived the fall from the bridge and was going to be ready to report for duty soon.

 

  Clu moved. He began walking out from the room; he understood everything and there was work to do. Surprisingly enough, he thought, as he was making his way to the elevator, after pursuing perfection for a thousand cycles, this was the moment he ever felt the closest to being happy.

 

  Some time passed. It was peaceful; life went on in the city with some changes for now. The games were suspended indefinitely. While patrols and Recognizers were still surveying the city, they were no longer harassing and seizing programs for no reason. ISOs were outlaws no more; for now no Bostrumites returned to the city, for there were apparent changes at the ISO colony, even an election coming to establish new leadership. The possible return of the ISOs would depend on the negotiations with the new rulers. There was an expectation on the faces of programs all around the city, and a hopeful one.

 

  Clu’s bike crossed the streets of downtown and then the outer districts. Beyond the city limits he left a checkpoint behind and headed straight to the Outlands. He stopped before crossing the unmarked border. He collapsed his bike and he walked to the crouched figure ahead. Tron was waiting there motionlessly, but from his posture Clu could tell that the security program was ready to take off any moment, should there be others following or should Clu make a threatening gesture. Tron must have known from the User that it was safe for him to meet the system administrator, but a thousand cycles was a long time. The program stood up. He looked fine; there was no sign of the grave injuries he had suffered at the portal.

 

  “So it is true,” Tron said, watching Clu’s blue circuitry curiously. Clu looked at him quietly and Tron averted his gaze. They did not have to talk, not really; Tron was going to come back anyway, according to his programming. Clu did not even know where the program was staying now; Clu and his entourage had located Flynn’s safehouse after Sam Flynn had foolishly entered the city using his father’s distinctive bike. The system administrator remembered the dark satisfaction he had felt when the house had collapsed after the energy blast that had come from the Throne Ship.

 

  “They made it,” Clu said. Tron turned his face at the sky instinctively. Clu was curious, how much Tron knew about the Users’ current situation and the issues with the portal; the program could have received some information when he had been healed, but communicating with Users was hard without an I/O Tower, difficult and one-sided.

 

  “Of course they made it,” Tron replied with a shrug, as if it was beyond doubt, as if the program could not care less. But Clu knew pretence when he saw it.

 

  “You think you are so smart,” he said. His words were without malice, yet he expected Tron to snap anyway – pride was a vulnerable spot of security programs. Indeed, Tron straightened himself right away.

 

  “Well,” he said. “I am smarter than you.”

 

  He turned aside and waved his hand at a hill nearby. A program, that had been hiding there, rose now and waved back. It was another combat program... It was Rinzler. No, not Rinzler, Clu realized; the program had gotten his original, blue circuits back. The system monitor disappeared from their sight; he did not seem to be interested to meet the system administrator. He must have been there to ensure Tron’s safety in case the meeting with Clu did not work out the way expected.

 

  Clu turned back at Tron. Much to his surprise he felt the same, intense need he had used to feel around the program. The surprise was not the desire, but the fact that he had not lost it, that the update had not taken it away – then Clu knew the reason. That feeling was his, rooted on his original, uncorrupted self and such as, had been untouched by the User update. Right after there came another realization; that Kevin Flynn might never return or should he come back, that would take very long time for them, for programs.

 

  Tron noticed his stare; the security program quickly looked away. Clu did not say anything; time was on his side and he had all the time in the world. He brought out his baton, getting ready to return home.

 

  “See you around,” he said and he began to walk toward the lights of the city.

 

 

V.

 

  She always started in the dark. She would put on the running gear, the tights, the jacket and shoes and would leave the quiet house. Outside it would be cold and Quorra would look at the city lights across the water. It would never be really quiet; the sound of cars would come from the other side of the lake and there would be a dog barking in the neighborhood, no matter how cautiously she would close the door behind herself.

 

  Quorra was running. The path on the bank was empty at such an early hour. Her breath came out as vapor in the cold; a phenomenon that had made her stop and almost collapse in terror when he had first seen it. By now she had gotten used to it, like she had become familiar with so many other things on this side of the world.

 

  They lived in the lake house now. Kevin Flynn was rarely around: almost every morning a car came and he left for work. He and Sam were either at ENCOM or had meetings with attorneys, press and friends. The media and the fans did not find out about the lake house yet and for now they could live there undisturbed. Quorra mostly went according her own schedule; amongst the meetings, hearings and interviews there was no time for them to really look into her situation, to what the significance of her arrival would be concerning the User world. She was a healthy human being, that much they knew and for now that had to be enough. Quorra did not mind the wait; for now she was happy to be alive.

 

  She was running. The air was clean and sharp and the pebbles were creaking under her feet. Morning was coming and Quorra saw the very first lights appearing on the sky. She sped up. One of these days she got home late and she saw the car which came for Flynn pulling in. Quorra hid behind a tree to avoid being spotted; there was somebody with Sam Flynn in the car and it took her a moment to recognize the guest. Because she recognized Alan Bradley, for the features he had common with his program child. She was hiding behind the tree until they went in and they left with Kevin Flynn some time later; Quorra did not feel ready to meet Alan Bradley.

 

  They did find time to fix and restart the Grid. It was painful and exhilarating at the same time to know how little changes the system needed to make it safe – to see how small details made the difference between chaos and balance. Despite of admitting his own responsibility, Flynn wanted to kill Clu for all his wrongdoings. The three of them were under the Arcade. Upstairs there were contractors working as the place was scheduled to reopen in a month.

 

  “You can’t do that,” Quorra said suddenly. “You have an established leader within the system. He simply needs new directions. With a new program you will have to start everything from scratch and even then, how will you know that it worked?”

 

  They both looked at her surprisedly; a second later she saw the understanding on Flynn’s face, the realization that she was repeating Tron’s words. And that was something hard to argue with; if the security program was able to forgive, then they would have been pretentious to hold grudges anymore.

 

  It was easy to repair the corrupted system monitor and even simpler to heal Tron; they were Basics. It was much more difficult with Radia: as Flynn explained it to them, he could not start programming Radia from the outside. She was an ISO; poking around with her abstract codes in order to make her change her ways was the same than to saw a human’s skull open and stick needles in it – it was hopeless and was going to kill or maim the subject. Quorra had an answer to that question too. That knowledge came from her time with the ISO leader. For Radia it was an external reason; she had fallen because of the loss. Radia had never admitted and Quorra would not reveal her assumption to others, that the reason of Radia’s unforgiving hate toward Tron was bitter envy, over seeing this simple program, so obviously in love all the time – and listening to Abraxas’ screaming, so that she would never forget what she had had.

 

  That, restoring Jalen was something Flynn initially refused to attempt, for the same reason why he did not want to touch Radia’s coding. When he finally gave in, they worked on the virus in a completely isolated computer. It took days for them to clear up the codes from the infection, and even more time to compare the restored program with Jalen’s original imprint to prevent releasing a virus into the system for a second time. The Flynns were both exhausted by the time they placed Jalen back to the system; they were watching it holding their breath as the ISO entered the colony.

 

  Quorra was getting closer to the benches from where she usually watched the sunrise. Her lungs were burning from the cold air. The laser… They were still not sure if they could repair it. Kevin Flynn wanted to see the original plans of the Shiva laser, but those papers were in Lora Baines’ possession. To obtain the plans Flynn had to reveal the existence of the Grid to Lora Baines. Quorra was not sure if he really needed to see the original settings or it was Flynn’s need of redemption, that stopped him from fixing the laser and continue his experiments on his own.   


 

  The day before, just prior to their departure from the Arcade, Quorra saw Kevin Flynn looking at the screen of the computer silently. Sam was outside already and Quorra came back from the stairs for her gloves she had left behind. Flynn reached out and touched the screen in a manner one holds onto the hand of a loved one – except for the one on the other side of the screen would not know and would not feel that touch. Flynn looked up and noticed Quorra. He turned around and they left the Arcade together.

 

  She stopped at the benches. There were only a few minutes left before the sun would rise above the hills. Quorra was panting.

 

  “How do you know that I am going to make it?” she asked Tron. It was back on the Grid, at the first time when they were talking about Quorra’s possible escape. “You know that every Basics that ever approached the portal, died.”

 

  “Flynn said it’s different with ISOs,” Tron replied. “And you will be with the Users.”

 

  “I’m not sure,” Quorra said, shaking her head.

 

  “I’ll get you a proof,” Tron promised. And he got it, many cycles later. The program came for her, as always, before their learning sessions with Flynn and they walked through the door between Bostrum and Flynn’s residence. As always, the windows of the residence were closed, so that the visitors could not tell where the safehouse was located. This time the residence was dark and the User was not around; he was probably resting in his room. The learning session was just a cover this time; they were going to travel to an I/O Tower to send a signal to the User world. The signal would be noticeable from most part of the Grid and Tron needed to be accounted; later, when asked, Quorra would claim that Tron was present during the learning session.

 

  Quietly they went to the elevator. After getting into the buggy in the garage Tron would ask her to put on her helmet and turn the visor opaque. This was the endgame and the security program put his life in Quorra’s hands – but only his own life, not Flynn’s. Quorra was sitting next to him in darkness as they drove across the Outlands, to the I/O Tower. The buggy stopped: they got out of the vehicle and Quorra removed her helmet. She looked up at the mighty communication tower.

 

  They went upstairs. Inside it was dark and empty; I/O Towers were out of order since the coup. In the control room Tron turned the energy on and he pulled out his data pad with the codes he had stolen from the User. He uploaded the information to the terminal, which was shining with a bright light. Quorra was looking at it, mesmerized. But the signal was not sent yet; something was missing. A red dot was blinking in the middle of the screen.

 

  “It needs a tower guardian, a system administrator or a User to authorize the transmission,” Tron explained. Quorra looked at him regretfully; the tower guardians had been all executed or rectified long time before. Clu, obviously, was out of question and Flynn was back at the safehouse. They had come all the way to the tower in vain.

 

  “I am sorry,” she said. Tron shook his head.

 

  “Touch it,” he said. Quorra reached out and pushed the blinking dot. The bright, blue light filled the room and illuminated the surroundings of the tower outside. The signal had been sent.

 

  “I don’t understand,” Quorra said, as they were rushing downstairs. They did not have much time; soon there would be sentries and Recognizers everywhere around the I/O Tower to investigate the incident. She knew the answer without Tron saying it; the system had recognized her as User. ISOs were human, born from no mother, and Tron knew that. She was going to make it, she thought, she was going to make it through the portal and she was going to live.

 

  Quorra was standing on the lakeshore, with her eyes on the pale coin of the morning sun. It was magical, but her mind was wandering and she was back on the Grid. As they got out from the I/O Tower, they ran to the buggy. Quorra jumped in. Tron stopped outside for a moment and she looked up at him, somewhat light-headed herself because of the success of their mission, because of her new knowledge. And she saw the program standing there with his head tilted back, watching the still glowing light of the tower with a rare smile of his on his face.


End file.
